


When the Sky Falls

by ginnyvos, Only_1_Truth



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: "Sleepwalking", Airplane Crashes, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Badass!Bond, Badass!OCs, Badass!Q, Blow Jobs, Desert Island Fic, Epic Banter, Hurt/Comfort, Implied violence with sandcastles, Kink Exploration, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Mild D/s, Mild Painplay, Oblivious idiots (but what else is new), Scars, Slow Burn, Unavoidable 00-agent violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-02-21 02:06:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 43
Words: 154,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2450675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginnyvos/pseuds/ginnyvos, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Only_1_Truth/pseuds/Only_1_Truth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quint hates planes. Quint really, really hates planes. But with MI6 hunting him down, he hasn't got much of a choice but to get on one. He should've known better. He really should've known better.</p><p>In which there is a plane crash, a deserted island, accidental minions, a lot of miscommunication, sleepwalking (sort of), a very creepy Silva and more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Most of this was written by way of frantically typing at each other (occasionally without even letting the other one finish) and lots of enthusiastic yelling over chat. There was a lot of getting up absurdly early in the mornings (Only_1_Truth) and staying up way past bedtimes (ginnyvos), a lot of unplotted plot-twists, stealth writing during work hours, some very questionable google-searches and general addiction and preoccupation. Also mayhem.
> 
> This monster is the result of that. Bond and Silva are all Only_1_Truth, and Q is all ginnyvos (even though, sad as we are to admit this, we own none of these characters). Sam and the minions are ginnyvos' babies, but occasionally borrowed by Only_1_Truth, who had to admit that maybe they weren't so bad... For OC's.
> 
> We sincerely hope you enjoy reading this monster as much as we enjoyed writing it, and we hope that you won't be as ready to go after us with pitchforks for the occasional cliffhanger as we did with each other. Also, ginnyvos takes no responsibility if after this, you will never be able to look at sandcastles the same way again. That's all Only_1_Truth's fault!

“Would you like a drink, sir?” The stewardess was pretty even by the standards of stewardesses, and James took a moment to regret that he was on the job. Not that he exactly avoided pretty faces while on the job, but after the last lecture M had given him about distractions…

“No, thank you,” he replied with a charming enough smile to make the blonde smile back and flush faintly before turning and, lamentably, leaving. Bond sighed as he watched her sashay away, hoping that he got this mission over with quickly - perhaps before he lost track of that blonde. Bereft now of both company and drink - although he’d proven in the past that he could handle both and still complete a mission with... minimal... trouble - the agent let his gaze wander around the first-class seats, eyes lazily hooded but sharp as cut glass behind his lashes.

Taking down a hacker... So far as missions went, this wasn't shaping up to be particularly thrilling. Although, to be truthful, James preferred the missions where he was supposed to gather information - straight-up assassinations put shadows in his soul, which was already dark enough. He sighed, more resigned than unhappy, having become used to the idea sometime after his second - or maybe twenty-second - kill. Apparently, the hacker he was after had gotten hold of the list of MI6’s undercover operatives, and the only reason 007’s head wasn't on the chopping block was that he was still technically declared dead after that last little incident with a train, an irritating opponent, and other MI6 agents’ inability to shoot something other than their partners. Now, MI6 had him playing the shadow and solving what was possibly the biggest problem in MI6’s recollection.

‘Solving’ the problem apparently meant killing the hacker, because the Powers That Be had decided that anything less was just too much of a risk. Ergo, 007 was sitting on a plane and waiting for the opportune moment to do what he did best: make problems go away.

It didn't look like it would be particularly hard, Bond noted, as his eyes caught on his target. He was just a few aisles forward and to the left of the aisle, exactly where the manifest had said he’d be. Actually... Bond raised an eyebrow as he took in the slender frame, bookish glasses, and narrow shoulders taut enough to just about snap. Actually, it looked like the plane-trip just might do the job for him. Even without an eye for body-language and the training to interpret it, James could see someone with a phobia of flying. That hadn't precisely been in his mission brief, but it would be a spot of luck on 007’s part if his target just up and went mad on the plane, forcing James to ‘subdue’ him - or, better yet, just had a heart-attack. The hacker looked well on his way there already.

James settled back into his seat, tamping down his predatory instinct. He had been molded into a killer, but he was a sensible killer - and the sensible part of him knew that terminating a person was monumentally harder to get away with in an enclosed space like an airplane, especially one that was about to take off and be in the air for hours. Most likely, 007 would endure the trip and finish the job in the hubbub and chaos of the airport.

Which, sadly, would mean that his chances of catching up with that blonde would decline considerably. He lifted a hand and was pleased to get said woman’s attention again instantly, throwing her another smile - this one more rueful - and saying, “On second thought, maybe I will take that drink.”

After the general song-and-dance to get everyone seated and the plane in the air, things were pretty dull, especially for an agent who had flown on so many planes he honestly didn't care anymore. Driving was less dull because he at least had a hand on the steering wheel, but soon his mind was wandering. The blonde was still an available pastime - she kept shooting him glances and smiling at him, which he returned with the reflexes of a trained charmer - but with M’s lecture still fresh on his mind, 007 instead discreetly watched his target. MI6 had remarkably little information on the fellow, for all that he looked like the kind of harmless nerd that Bond could easily imagine living between the covers of a book. So far, Bond was aware of his name - Quint Locke, under the hacking title of ‘Q’ - and that he was a skilled enough hacker to crack his way into MI6’s most secure files, although apparently he hadn't covered his trail up well enough to prevent a 00-agent from being sent on his tail. And, of course, the fact that he was going to have a panic attack before the plane landed, if things continued as they were.

Abruptly, Bond waved for the stewardess again. The blonde he’d been subtly flirting with was elsewhere, but Bond was about as loyal as most curs, so the brunette that walked over received the same dashing grin as he made a quick request. A moment later and she was back, carrying another drink and smiling enough to show her dimples. Bond’s returned smile lasted until her back was turned, and then his attention was on the hacker, again.

The seat-belt sign was off, so 007 straightened smoothly, new drink still cradled in one hand. With an easy, strolling step he paced over until he was stationed at Q’s seat, rather amused by the fact that he was standing over a man he was supposed to kill, and his target didn't even know it. Q jumped quite spectacularly when Bond murmured almost cheerily, “Not a fan of flying?”

The young man - boy, almost - was clutching his chair with one hand, typing away on a small-ish laptop with the other. He jumped so badly at the sudden voice near his ear, the laptop almost slid off his lap. He scrambled to save the thing before looking up at Bond and laughing nervously. “One could say that,” he said, his voice pinched.

He was wearing a dark blue hoodie with some image or other on the front, but Bond couldn't see what, hunched over his laptop as he was. Almost as if he didn't want anyone seeing what was on the screen. His glasses were slightly askew after his scramble for the laptop, and his hair was all over the place. His eyes were a curious mix of different colours as he peered up at Bond expectantly.

When Bond didn't move along, his eyes narrowed and he snapped the lid of his laptop closed. “Can I help you, mister…?”

“Bond,” replied Bond affably, “James Bond. I've been sitting just over there-” He gestured back to his seat idly, one hand still holding his new drink, “-Close enough to notice you quietly going to pieces.”

Because of long practice, the agent was able to say this in a fashion that was more humorous than derisive, twisting one side of his mouth ruefully to match as he watched his unusual target. 007 had been sent to kill people of all descriptions before - businessmen, ladies of class, bodyguards with more muscle than brains - but he had to admit that Q would take up a memorable place on his list. The refined, almost clipped tone was easy on the ears, and it said something that Q’s eyes were quick and bright despite the fact that he looked a bit airsick.

“Care for a drink?” he finally asked when he’d stared just long enough to no longer be acceptable. With an easy shift of his arm (he’d moonlighted as a waiter on missions, to the extent that he fancied himself rather good at it), he extended the drink he’d ordered but never touched. He settled it close enough to Q’s hand that - human reflexes being what they were - the hacker flipped his wrist and instinctively grabbed the glass with a surprised expression. Those eyes (shades of green and brown, perhaps? Plane lighting was never flattering, but Bond was curious despite himself) flicked up to him with a cautious, bemused look, so Bond finished with his most disarming and cordial grin, “A bit of vodka should steady your nerves. I find that getting through stressful situations is generally easier with the addition of alcohol.”

Q seemed to hesitate for moment, before raising one corner of his mouth in half a smile and taking a sip. “... Thanks?” he said. It took a trained eye like Bond’s to notice the signs of his inner confusion. To anyone else, he looked only slightly bemused. Then he perked up, as if realizing that he was maybe expected to offer something in return. “Quint, Quint Locke. Nice to meet you, mister Bond. And thanks for the drink.”

Easily digesting the new alias, Bond tipped his head back, but didn't move to leave. M would give him such a talk about chatting up his targets - and, to be honest, even 007 was aware that it was rather morbid - but the flight was going to be a long one, and he was more than a bit curious how such an unassuming figure could actually be vicious enough to break into MI6 and threaten to share the names of all its undercover agents. Bond was smiling, but underneath it, there was a slow-burning anger, because he knew quite a few of those agents...

All of his instincts, however, as he looked at that carefully smiling face and big eyes behind studious glasses, were telling him that the young man he was looking at wasn't a killer.

Bond gave himself an internal shake, firmly reminding himself that impressions weren't always right, and that orders overrode them... at least nine times out of ten. He would have said always, but then he wouldn't have been 007, most recalcitrant agent in M’s black books. She’d skin him one of these days... “So what brings you up in the air then? If you so obviously hate it, this must be important,” he asked, leaning his weight against Q’s chair and not caring that it put him imposingly close.

Q actually leaned back a little, eyes shifting away to the left. “Business,” he said, patting his laptop. “I need to meet someone about a business deal.” His words were clipped but otherwise neutral. The fact that he’d looked to the left and up told Bond that he was lying, though. Sometimes it was nice to be working with people who obviously weren't practiced liars.

“I’m traveling for business, too,” Bond replied back, just because he felt that turnabout was fair play. He briefly considered flagrantly lying about what his business was - something totally unbelievable, just so that he could see if Q would call him on it. Let it never be said that Bond didn't like to push his luck, and honestly, if someone was going to lie to him - and hack MI6 - then 007 was going to get offended. He got petty when he was offended. “I’m a chef, but work wasn't keeping me busy in London. I figured a change of venue would liven up my day.” He plucked the falsehood out of thin air without his expression ever wavering, although maybe his eyes got a bit sharp and frosted around the edges. He waited to see how Q would react.

“Wow, you must be good, for you to be able to change venues so easily,” Q said, something like admiration lightening up his face. “I can boil an egg, but anything fancy...0 Let’s just say I prefer to order out when I have guests.” He shrugged, but was still leaning away from Bond as much as he could without being obvious about it.

“I bet I could come up with something better than anything you could order out for,” Bond’s smile widened and deepened a careful fraction, possibly... probably... slipping into the territory of leering. “I’m flexible.” As horrid as it was to be flirting with a target, it wasn't exactly a new thing for 007 - actually, this came naturally. Besides, unless Q was a very quick study and an equally quick opportunist, he wasn't going to have time to capitalize on the hints 007 was dropping before the plane landed and the 00-agent killed him.

Q stared up at him, eyebrows raised skeptically. “I’m sure...” he said, the same skepticism dripping from his voice, for Bond to puzzle out later. “Either way, I’m sure-”

Q was stopped from saying any more by the airplane giving a big lurch. Instantly, he clutched his laptop to his chest, his other hand gripping the armrest so hard his fingers turned white. His body went completely rigid, facing the headrest in front of him. The drink, barely half finished, danced off the table. It would've made a mess, if not for Bond’s reflexes. Instead, he caught it and threw the rest of the contents back himself. No use wasting good alcohol.

Seeing that he wouldn't be getting much out of Q until the turbulence let off, he graced him with a pat on the shoulder and went back to his chair. “Nice talking with you, Quint.”

~*~

Gods, but Quint hated flying. Around him, the plane shook again. He held on to his chair with a white-knuckled grip, clutching his laptop to him with the other. He should've known better than this. He really should've. Nothing wrong with a boat. A nice, big boat that was close to the water and that you could jump off of when something went wrong. Like engine failure. Or an iceberg. Or-

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts. There is no cause for alarm. We are simply experiencing some turbulence. I repeat, there is no cause for alarm. Please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts.”

-Or compromised structural integrity of the wings, or failure of the aviation instruments, or fuel deficit, or a power outage, or pilot error, or-

Around him, all the lights powered down, including the emergency lights. People were scrambling to get back to their seats and strap in. Q, who never loosened his seat belt in the first place, stared resolutely at the headrest of the chair in front of him, and not at his fellow passengers, who were yelling, screaming, and just generally losing their minds all around him. He was 94.3 percent sure that the popping in his ears was due to a change in air pressure associated with rapid loss in altitude. Also, that the electricity had just cut out. He really, really hated flying.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please calm down and fasten your seat belts! Under your chair, you will find life jackets. There is no cause for panic at this time, but as a precaution, please put them on. Remember to always secure your own life jacket before you secure that of your children!” The stewardess was yelling, but even so she was barely audible over the passengers’ panicked ruckus.

Mechanically, Quint grabbed his jacket and strapped himself in, laptop balancing on his lap, before he clutched it back to his chest. If they had been at an average cruising altitude of 35.000 feet, and they were losing altitude at a rate of 4000 feet per minute due to complete engine failure, this would mean they had an estimated 8 minutes and 45 seconds between start of altitude loss and plane crash. If the turbulence was any indication, they had been losing altitude for approximately 6 minutes now. This gave them another 2 minutes and 45 seconds. Unless only one engine failed, in which case the plane should be leaning more than it did now. In case of a complete power outage, the pilots would also have lost control over the engines and the results would not differ from complete engine failure. This scenario showed most consistency with the current situation, but would imply dysfunction of both the main power source and the three back-up generators, which was improbable at best, yet the best possible explanation to all the facts. Chance of survival based on previous crashes with similar models was approximately 43.5 percent, though very dependent on the skill of their pilot.

Quint gripped his chair tighter as the man next to him started chanting that it must be a punishment from god and how they were all going to die. It was all strangely distant. Quint suddenly remembered the extra protective laptop casing he had in his hand luggage and used his last seconds to slide his laptop in, before once more clutching it to his chest. He hunched over it, closed his eyes and braced for impact.

~*~

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the crash: we get unexpected heroes, unexpected trouble, and the general panic that comes from dealing with a wrecked plane + injured/scared people. Good thing Q's stuck right in the middle of it

Quint groaned as he came to. For a moment, he wondered just why his body felt like it’d been through a meatgrinder. Then he opened his eyes. In front of him were the fractured remains of something dull gray, with red and yellow bits dancing across. Fractured, he realised distantly, because his glasses were fractured. Bollocks. Had he fallen? And if so, why was he still seated?

Slowly, his sight began to focus a little more, and Quint realised that the gray… thing was in fact the headrest of the chair in front of him. Airplane chair. The airplane!

“I should’ve bloody well known better…” he groaned, letting his head fall against the headrest. That hurt more than it should’ve. Shit.

The pain functioned to pierce through the fog in his mind a little though, and he sat back up, surveying the plane. They were not losing altitude anymore, that much was obvious. They’d landed then. Crashed, more likely.

“Really should’ve known better…”

With that, he sat up and looked around. It was light enough to see by, which meant that it was still day, wherever they had landed. He tried to calculate just where in the ocean they’d come down, based on possible flight-routes and flight time, but came up blank. His mind was still too foggy. That was when it registered that part of plane was ripped out. Literally ripped out by some grey rock… thing that’d come right through the wall of the airplane. He looked away. Act now, stare in horror later. Priorities.

Around him, more people were waking up. Someone was yelling in the back of the plane - how had he only now registered someone was yelling? Never mind - but most people were still out. Wobbly, he got up, still clutching his laptop to him, only to notice that there was water in his shoes. As a matter of fact, there wasn’t just water in his shoes. There was water everywhere. A good four inches, by his estimation. Bloody brilliant, that. They had landed in water. With his luck, they were just seconds away from sinking further into some unknown ocean. Just lovely.

Right, they were possibly sinking. Which meant he had to do something. Why had he not known better than to take a bloody plane?

For lack of a better plan, he started with the man sitting beside him. Then he remembered his insistence that the plane crash was a punishment from god, and decided there must be more useful people on board of the plane right now. Like the people who were sitting right by the emergency exits. That sounded like a plan.

As it turned out, the people by the nearest emergency exit were a woman with two little girls, holding on to each other even though they were unconscious. Might as well… At least the kids deserved to get out before they drowned. Quint made his way to them, ever so grateful he’d opted for a seat by the aisle, and shook the woman’s shoulder. She opened her eyes groggily.

“Ma’am. Ma’am, please wake up.”

“Wha… Astrid, Amy! Where-”

“Right here, miss, they’re fine. We were in a plane crash and I need you to wake them up, open the emergency exit to your left, and get onto the wing. If you see land, tell me. If it’s close enough, take your girls and swim there. If not, we’ll come up with something. Hurry!”

The woman stared at him for a long moment, uncomprehending. Then she looked down at the two girls on either side of her and something in her eyes cleared. “Right. Yes.”

Quint left her trying to wake up the kids, who were waking up anyway. God bless motherly instincts. At least mothers usually got their priorities straight. Act now, panic later.

That done, he moved to the next row, still resolutely not looking at the other side of the plane. His body felt heavy, but he shut that out, too, along with the panic that tried to take a hold of him. Now was not the time. Later. When everyone was out, when they were safe and he could break down in peace.

“Really should’ve known better,” he repeated, for good measure.

The next row of chairs were what looked like two tourists and a businessman. He shook the man closest to him, but the guy didn’t respond. He moved to the guy in the middle, hanging over sleeping beauty precariously. “Sir, sir, wake up! We were in a plane crash. I need you to wake up, sir!”

The guy came to with a start, looking around him wildly. “The plane! We-!”

“We crashed, yes. But you’re alive and now you need to get moving. Wake up the people next to you and move to the emergency exit one row ahead. If you can, please come back and help me get everyone out…”

The man stared at him in horror and Quint groaned. Fuck it.

At that moment, one of the girls in the row before him started crying. Her mother was shushing her, but Quint just hoped she was working on getting them the fuck out. At least it seemed to wake up Mr. Panicky a little more, as well as the guy in the window seat. Good.

“Look, you need to take this guy here, and get out, alright?”

The man stared at him, wide eyed, but nodded.

Q moved over to the next row. A bunch of teenagers who were already waking and, miraculously, actually had the presence of mind to ask Quint if there was anything they could do. Quint sent them to wake up the people in the front, and one to try and open the door to the cabin, see how the pilot and co-pilot were. They nodded, grimly, and did as he’d asked. Good.

The girl’s wailing, which he’d managed to shut out, suddenly dimmed significantly, and Quint felt a moment of relief that the woman had gotten her kids out.

“Sir, I see land! It’s not that far! I think I can make it! It’s an island or something!”

Quint turned around abruptly, sagging a little in relief. “Good, get your kids and get out!”

She gave a determined nod and disappeared from the emergency exit once more.

As Quint moved from row to row, trying to wake people up, calm people the fuck down (in several cases by telling them exactly that), trying to get them to wake up their fellow passengers and get the hell out of the plane, the shredded side of the ship became unavoidable. Where on the left side, people had gotten off with only bumps and bruises from the crash and most were waking up on their own, the people on the right hadn’t been so lucky. There was blood. A lot of blood. Which he ignored, because priorities. The plane was coming to life now, as more and more people woke up. The panicked screaming was not helping.

The teens were doing an admirable job of getting the front of the plane evacuated, although a quick glance showed Quint that they weren’t having much luck with the door. He left them to it and finally forced himself to focus on the right side of the plane. It was… It was not pretty.

They’d apparently glided down right over small rock formation, but where the front had made it over, the people in the back hadn’t been so lucky. He could clearly see how the pointy tip of the formation had tore its way through the belly of the airplane, the airplane itself sinking deeper and deeper onto the rock.

Quint shoved his horror to the back of his mind, where he could deal with it along with his panic. Priorities.

The lightly wounded needed out first. They could make it to the shore with only a little help, he estimated. He grabbed onto a passing woman who looked athletic enough to swim with a passenger, and pointed at a woman who was bleeding from a headwound. “Get her out, would you? There’s supposedly an island within swimming distance. Get her out!”

The woman stared at him for a moment, then gave a firm nod. She started hoisting the wounded woman out of her seat. Good.

“Everyone, SHUT UP!” he yelled over the din, as loud as he could. To his immense surprise, people actually did.

“Everyone! There’s an island within swimming distance! Those of you who are strong enough, please try and take someone with you! There are people who are wounded in the back and they need to get out! Please, if you can, take someone and go!”

Most of the passengers stared at him blankly for a while. He suddenly realised that he must cut quite a figure; skinny little thing with his broken glasses and… Right, he was still clutching his laptop case like a lifeline.

It was a large man in shorts and the most awful eyesore of a T-shirt who was the first to break the collective paralysis. He gave a firm nod, and walked over to Quint. “Well, come on, you lot! Either come help or get the hell out!” His voice was heavy and seemed to startle everyone else out of it. People scrambled over to help. Sometimes on their own, sometimes in duo’s, they started pulling people from their chairs. Q winced when he saw someone with a busted leg be manhandled in a way that could NOT be good, but he figured it was better than the alternative. Around him, the plane finally started emptying out. Good thing, too. Quint distantly registered that the water must be up to six inches now.

He turned to the next person. The man was bleeding from a head-wound and several other places, as well. The blood covered most of his face, and Quint almost didn’t recognise him. It was the guy from before. The guy who’d offered him a drink. There was no way he was going to be able to carry that lump of muscles over to the exit, let be swim with him. He would have to wake up.

“Sir, sir, please wake up!”

The man didn’t respond.

“Sir!” Wait, his name was Bond. “Bond! Wake up! I need you to get up, Bond, because there is no way I am going to be able to carry you!”

He hesitated for a moment, then hit him in the face. Hard. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice cackled. He’d always wanted to do that…

The man, Bond, groaned. “Fuck…”

“I know. We’ve been in a plane crash. You’re wounded, it hurts, but we have to get off his plane. Do you think you can walk?”

He’d clipped loose the man’s seatbelt in the meanwhile, and the man almost pitched forward, caught himself, grabbed onto his ribs, groaned again, but gave a nod.

“Good. Come on, let’s get you out.”

Not waiting for a response, and trying not to worry about damaged ribs and whatnot, Quint dragged him to the emergency exit, still clutching his laptop with the other hand. The plane was almost empty. Two of the teenagers, dragging along an old lady between them, were just disappearing through the emergency exit. The people who were still in their seats… Quint glanced at them and quickly looked away. They could come back for them later. Give them a proper burial. If the sea didn’t take care of that for them, of course.

Quint was dragging Bond more than the man was walking, but at least he was working with and not against him. It seemed to take an eternity, but they finally made it to the emergency exit. Heat slapped him in the face the moment he stepped outside, but he ignored it, dragging Bond through the exit and onto the wing. There were still a few people there, and a number of people in the sea, but it looked like most had made it. He took a deep breath. This was not going to be fun.

The island wasn’t large, but it had a beach and Quint could see people on it. He hoped to every god he’d ever heard of that it wasn’t just the passengers. That there were inhabitants there. But if they were, why weren’t they getting boats?

He looked at Bond, and back at his laptop. He didn’t want to leave it. If nothing else, maybe he could connect to a satellite. Call for help. But with it, there was no way, no way at all, that he could get Bond to the island.

“Damn it! Alright, stay here!”

He leaned Bond against the side of the plane and hoped to anyone who’d listen that the man wouldn’t topple over and fall into the water. He quickly sprung back into the airplane and opened the luggage department above the emergency exit. He shoved the laptop in.

“Now if you could just not sink before I get back here to pick this up, that would be great!” he said to the airplane at large, before climbing back out. Bond was barely conscious, but still where Quint had left him. Good enough for Quint.

“Right, let’s get you to safety…” he said, steeling himself.

He ducked back under Bond’s arm and pulled him to the side of the wing. There, he inflated both their life-jackets, took a big breath, steeled himself, and jumped in, dragging Bond along with him.

For a moment, it felt like he was suspended under water. It was blue and see-through, the way he’d thought only happened in movies and ads. He could vaguely see the bottom, but it was way too deep for him to stand. It was beautiful. Then, seemingly without his consent, his mouth opened and the air left him in a rush. That was enough to shake him out of his funk. His lifejacket pulled him up, but Bond’s weight pulled him down. ‘No more exercise for you, mister, all those muscled are a pain!’ The thought was silly, but enough to spur him into action.

He strengthened his grip on Bond and started kicking his legs. He couldn’t quite believe it when they broke the surface.

When they did, Quint desperately tried to remember the one time they had learned rescue swimming during swimming class. Get the victim on their backs. Swim under them on your back, so you can use your hands to keep the victim above the water. Right.

Bond, by this point, was just floating. The shock of hitting the water must’ve put him under again. Quint didn’t know if that was a good or a bad thing, but decided not to dwell on it. He got in position behind Bond, grabbed him under his arms, and started swimming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ginnyvos and I are still just getting wound up! We've got a panicked hacker, a broken plane, and a downed 00-agent...you can bet that it only goes downhill from here! Expect another update come Monday :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are pop-culture references running rampant (gotta catch 'em all...), Bond does a very good impression of a lug and competence is sexy, but Quint is not so easily seduced. Also, more badassery.

Later, he’d have no idea how he managed. The man had to be double his weight. The current was constantly trying to drag him under. His body felt heavier and heavier. All he knew was that he had to keep going or they would both go under. Just keep swimming. A half delirious voice caught on to that and started putting it to a tune. Just keep swimming, just keep swimming, just keep swimming, swimming, swimming. What do we do? We swim! What do we do? We swim! Just keep swimming, just keep swimming…

Quint lost track of everything but keeping their heads above the water and his legs moving. Just keep swimming…

Suddenly, strong arms hauled Bond up, and another set of arms grabbed him, hauled him to his feet. It took Quint a moment of bewildered staring before he realized he was standing on sand, and the water only came up to his hips. He couldn't see anything through his glasses, which he maybe should've taken off, but there had been more important matters, and-

“Let’s get you out of the ocean, come on!”

It was the man from earlier, the same one who’d responded when Quint had asked people to help. He now had a hand on Quint’s back and was pushing him in the direction of the beach, while two people were dragging Bond’s unconscious body in the same direction. Q suddenly felt bone tired, almost unable to wade his way through the shallow water. He kept going, though. Just keep swimming, just keep swimming, just keep swimming, swimming, swimming…

He only realized he’d said it out loud when the man gave him a weird look. He quickly shut himself up.

He had only barely came up onto the beach when Quint felt his knees buckle and he sank down into the hot sand. He was suddenly sort of glad for the water on his face. It made it harder for people to tell that he was crying.

The man left him there, apparently content that he would get up on his own steam, and for a while, Quint doubted that. Then, slowly, the idea began the sink in that he’d done it. He was on land. Most of the people were out of the plane. He’d done it.

He allowed himself to have a small breakdown, only because he didn't have much of a choice. It wasn't done yet, though. As he finally managed to sit up and survey the beach, he could see clearly that the passengers were the only ones there. No locals. No houses anywhere to be seen. No sign that there was anyone on the island but them. Uninhabited, then. Very ‘Lost’, that. If only he hadn't stopped watching after the first few episodes, maybe he’d know what to do.

He recognized that thought as inherently stupid - like a series would be in any way realistic - and decided to use common sense instead.

There were clusters of people everywhere. Many lying in the sand, others huddled together. Others, again, were standing by the treeline. Quint realized that this was where they’d put the people who weren't conscious. In the shade. At least one person had some brains then.

Slowly and hurting all over, Quint forced his body back into functioning and got up. He made his way over to the group by the treeline. Bond was on the end of a long line of people. Some looked worse than others, but they were breathing.

His eye fell on a middle-aged woman who looked to be giving commands. He made his way to her and heard her telling several people to head into the jungle and look for water. When one of them dared to protest that they had just survived a plane crash, and she might be perfectly in order, but he was tired, damn it, she leveled the most fearsome glare at him Quint had ever seen. It occurred to him that it was a good thing he didn't swing towards the fairer sex, or she would be just his type.

“Find clean water. We’ll figure out how to get it here when we get there. Worst case, we’ll take them to it. Their wounds need to be cleaned, or they’ll get infected in no time. Each pick a direction, but always make sure you know your way back to camp. If you don’t remember, call out and I’ll call back. If you find water, call ‘water’ and stay the hell where you are. We’ll come to you. Now go!”

The small group spread out, leaving Quint suddenly directly in the woman’s line of sight.

“Ah, you’re the one that got us out, aren't you? Thank you. That was good thinking. My name’s Sam. I’m a doctor, so yes, I know what I’m doing.”

He pulled up one corner of his mouth in half a grin. “Quint. It’s good to meet you, and dear god, am I glad we have a doctor on board.” He suddenly realized he was. His brain was definitely not functioning at 100% capacity. “What more do you need?”

She looked at him for a moment, as if she wanted nothing more than to mother him. He was familiar with the look. It often came with women who wanted to ‘fatten him up’, or started asking him if he slept enough. It was bloody annoying. “You are aware you’re bleeding, right?” she asked, quirking an eyebrow.

He stared at her for a moment, looked down at himself, then grabbed for his head. His hand came away bloody. Okay, so maybe not so annoying.

“Thought so. Take off your shirt. Don’t want you bleeding out on me. We need every level head we can get right now.”

Quint did as he was told and wordlessly took off his sodding wet hoodie and shirt. Huh, that actually felt a lot lighter. Who’d have thought. He handed her the shirt, keeping the hoodie close. It was one of his favourites. Had the Tardis flying in space on the front, and the back said ‘Hello there, I’m… Sexy.’ It’d been a gift from his mates at uni, once upon a time, a bit of a dig at his lack of sex-life, possibly. Either way, it was incredibly comfy and warm and he’d live in it if he could.

As he stood there, thinking how he wasn't giving up his Tardis-hoodie if they tried to kill him for it, Sam ripped his shirt to shreds without looking at it twice. He was doubly glad he’d hung on to the hoodie.

Without much further ado, she used part of the shreds to bind around his head. She didn't offer him the rest of it back.

“Well, with that taken care of… I need stuff I can use for bandages. Something we can use as bowls for water as well. Any ideas?”

Quint stared for a moment longer, than nodded resolutely. The idea of going back into the sea was quite possibly the most unappealing he’d ever had, and that included the idea of getting into an airplane, but there was nothing for it.

“The luggage. If we can get the luggage out of the airplane, there’s bound to be stuff we can use.”

She nodded, looking relieved. “That sounds like a plan. Any chance you could round up some of those people over there and get them? I need to see to the wounded. Also, see if you can get them to part with their shirts so that I can start bandaging people? They’re not exactly clean, but if I don’t start...”

He nodded, resolutely. “Yes, sure, of course. It’ll be an extra motivator to get to their bags, if nothing else.”

That drew a smile out of her, which he answered with a small one of his own. He decided that if he was to get in an airplane crash on an uninhabited island, at least he was glad to have her around.

Rounding up people turned out to be easier than he’d imagined. He found his teenage crew lying in the sand, trying to dry their clothes. Once they spotted him, too, they jumped up. Gods, to have that much energy without the aid of two XL cans of redbull…

“Boss! At your command!” one of the boys said, giving a mock salute. There was another girl, in addition to the two boys and one girl he’d met earlier. He guessed she also belonged to their group.

Quint grinned at him. The kids looked all of sixteen, but they’d already done more than most of the adults combined. “I’m Quint, and I’m nobody’s boss, but if you want to help, I could definitely use some.”

The teens nodded.

“The doctor over there needs stuff to treat the wounded. Now as you can see, there’s all of nothing over here, so I thought it might be a good idea to go liberate the luggage. Are you guys up for another swim?”

“And girls!” one of the girls piped in. “I’m on the swimming team, you know? I can swim! Anyway… How many more people do you need… Boss?”

He laughed, liking her spunk. “As many as we can get, I guess. I’m not one-hundred percent clear on how we’re going to get everything back here in the first place, but we’ll have to figure something out.”

The kids nodded and mock-saluted again, before they were off. Quint couldn't help but look bemused as they started pestering the people sitting and lying all over the beach. Before long, he was standing by the edge of the water, surrounded by a bunch of people. And they all seemed to be waiting for something.

“So, boss, what’s the plan?” one of the teens asked. Quint really should ask them for their names…

Then it occurred to him that they had been waiting for something. Instructions. From him. Huh. That was different.

“Right. The doctor needs medical supplies. We all need things if we’re going to get through the first night here. We’re going to go back to the airplane and get what we can. First aid supplies and food are our first priority, but the way I see it, anything will be useful. I’m aware I’m asking you to get back into the water and back into the plane we just escaped from, but I honestly see no other way. Anyone who doesn't want to go, I understand. I’m honestly not sure I want to go. Anyway, if you don’t want to go, of you feel you can’t, go over to the treeline over there and help the doctor with the wounded. The rest of you… Let’s swim.”

Quint didn't wait to see how many people actually followed him as he turned around. He just shucked out of his trousers and threw them, his shoes, and socks and his hoodie in the sand, wading into the water in nothing but his pants. He shoved the embarrassment over his scrawny body to the back of his mind, where the ‘deal with later’ corner was getting pretty cozy.

The swim was honestly not as bad as he’d thought. His body had apparently decided to give up on reminding him that he had no energy and that it hurt, and instead just cooperated. The swim also didn't seem half as far when he wasn't drowning under the weight of a body twice his size.

Despite realizing this, Quin was surprised at how fast he got to the airplane. It must've sunk a little further in their absence, because the wing was now resting on the water.

“Well, at least we can climb in more easily like this…” and with that, he hoisted himself on top of the wing.

Around him, more people were doing the same. Quint took a moment to catch his breath, then steeled himself and made his way inside.

The air within the plane was colder than that on the outside, but the smell was horrid. How had he not realized that the first time? Behind him, someone gagged. He just hoped whoever it was did it somewhere out of the way.

Resolutely ignoring his laptop, Quint waded to the front of the plane. There, under at least eight inches of water, he found what he was looking for. A hatch. He took a moment to pray to whatever deity might be listening that the cargo-hold hadn't depressurized, and opened the hatch.

The hold had held. Inside, he could see the luggage. He took a moment to survey it, ignoring the people now crowding in behind him.

“Hey, that’s my bag!”

It was one of the teenagers. The girl who was a swimmer. She squeezed past Quint, and without so much of a by your leave, jumped down into the hold. Quint nearly had a heart-attack, but when nothing more happened, he took a deep breath and glared at her. “Would you be careful? You could've unbalanced the plane!”

She actually looked repentant for all of two seconds, before grinning up at him again. “Sorry, boss! I can make it up to you, though? I think I know how to get our stuff back to the island! See, I just realized… I've got an air mattress on here! Those float, right?”

Quint rolled his eyes at her, but then her words sunk in. That… Might actually work. “Right, get your bag out then. Do you see your friends’ bags? Do they have air mattresses, too?”

She nodded proudly.

“Right, hand them up. You,” he pointed at the first person who’d come up behind him. “Take it out of the way and get the mattress out. Blow it up. We can put stuff on top of it and hope it won’t sink!”

“Yes, boss!” It was another one of the teens. He really wished they would stop calling him that. Now, though, he had first aid supplies to find.

~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We promise the next chapter will have more Bond. Honest! Also, we realize this is way too short, but in exchange, the next chapter will be a whole lot longer than usual. We could probably be convinced to post early, too...
> 
> We're kind of insanely curious what you think of the premise so far, and the characterization, since ginnyvos is a nervous wreck over posting something like this, and Only_1_Truth is kind of amazed at the reception this is getting. So let us know what you think?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sam is Not Impressed, the minions are Not Intimidated and Bond is Not Amused (okay, so maybe a little, hush you!). Also, Q wonders if everyone collectively fell on their head that they seem to have appointed him leader and teens are weird (but what else is new, right?).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so we are sweet, compassionate authors who've decided to give you three chapters this week! It has nothing to do with the fact that the lack of Bond was making us depressed, too, mind, or with the amazing, amazing commenters who cheered us on and liked Sam.
> 
> Okay, so it really, really did. But we're also sweet compassionate authors! We are! Don't look at us like that! Those are sweet, compassionate cliffhangers and angst-fests, honest!

Bond groaned. This was not one of his better days. Considering how many days he had where he was shot, beaten, wrecking cars, and just generally destroyed himself on missions, that was saying something, but since he dimly remembered a plane-wreck… maybe it deserved to be at the top of his list. Memories filtered back in, fragmented and disturbingly hard to grab onto. The plane had been going down… he’d lost consciousness at some point… woken up to a familiar head of rumpled brown hair with a hand slapping his face…

A hand touched his wrist and he reacted, twisting his arm and grabbing with all of the brutal speed of reflex to capture a slim wrist. Pain immediately shot up and down his right side - broken ribs, he labeled, categorized, and pushed aside - and when he went to bring his right hand into play, even greater pain spiked like hot wires from his wrist, to his elbow, even to bite at his shoulder. That shocked him out of his reflexive self-defense, snapping his eyes open into dappled sunlight and a female voice shouting at him frantically.

“-Sir! Sir, it’s all right! You were in a plane-crash, and I’m not going to hurt you!”

 _‘Damn right, you’re not,’_ the agent in Bond growled, still fully operational and firing full-throttle to compensate for the fact that he was weak and injured, but growing rapidly less disoriented. With his eyes open, however, he could see that the woman kneeling at his side was telling the truth, her small frame bent over him and her hands empty of anything weaponized. She had the strained look of someone with a lot of calm and composure at their disposal, but who was nonetheless tempted to just stop trying and break down. She was not alone in that category, and 007 flicked his eyes around, taking in a sandy beach and trees shading them, and a lot of hurt and frightened people.

He let her go, carefully pushing back the lethal training so that it no longer sat like a monster at the fore of his mind. He realized that he had been stripped of his jacket, and his eyes moved at the same time the woman’s did, taking in his holster and gun tucked against his side. No doubt a few people had seen it by now, but the woman was just looking at him with her lips pursed. There was a wariness in her eyes now that she’d seen him react once - clearly, she didn't want a repeat performance.

“Want to tell me what kind of person is allowed to bring a gun on a plane?” she asked carefully, showing that she had more spine that some agents 007 knew.

“The kind with special permits,” Bond replied cagily, then winced as the adrenalin receded enough to let him feel his injuries. He swore. “How bad am I?” Usually, he was skilled enough to do his own personal check, but usually he was also able to get himself out of trouble, and the more he remembered, the more solid the image of a certain skinny hacker dragging him out of the plane like so much baggage became…

“As a doctor, I've definitely seen worse,” the woman informed him, and even gave a tight little smile. Her dark brown eyes were sharp and smart, giving her a competent look even with her black hair tied back in a loose knot and crusted with salt from her swim. “You took quite a blow to the head and I think you've got a few cracked ribs. Besides that, I’d be willing to bet you've got a hairline fracture in your right ulna.” She nodded towards his right arm, glaring just a bit because he probably would have punched her with that limb if it had been working correctly. Bond’s headache was still making him too irritable for a proper apology, but he closed his eyes and grimaced to show that he wasn't precisely proud. Wonderful. His gun-hand was more or less out of commission, unless he wanted to play around with a cracked bone… “Call me Sam. What’s your name?”

“Bond. James Bond,” he replied on reflex, forcing his eyes open again and pummeling the pain of his headache down to where he could ignore it as long as he needed to. “So nothing life-threatening then?”

“You bled a lot,” she informed him in a tone that said she knew what he was trying to do: weasel his way into being up and mobile again. Her doctorly instincts clearly did not approve. “And that knock to the head might actually be better termed a concussion.”

Bond just grunted, very familiar with the idea. He tested out his right wrist with a slow rotation, wincing but deciding the pain was bearable, then tucked it across his stomach while shifting his weight onto his good, left arm. Sam just sighed as he pushed himself up into a sitting position, stubbornly ignoring how the world swayed and turned black around the edges. “I was going to tell you to just lie still for a bit…” she started without much conviction.

“But we've been stranded on what looks like a deserted island, and I doubt that what you need is another wounded person lying around,” 007 finished for her through gritted teeth. his ribs all protested and he used all of his training to make himself ignore it. He was both surprised and pleased when the doctor - Sam - once again just sighed at him but didn’t start nagging. Casting a glance her way, wary of a lecture like the king Medical usually gave him, James noted a jaded, unamused look on her face. She wasn’t arguing, but she was peeved.

Then again, she was already developing bruises on her right wrist in the shape of his hand.

“If you start running around and you collapse, I’m going to laugh at you,” she informed him with a truly impressive frown, making no joke about it. In fact, for someone talking about laughing, she was awfully grim. “I’m going to laugh very hard, and then probably leave you to think about your decisions for awhile before treating you.”

Well… Bond blinked, one brow edging upwards as surprise flickered through him. This Sam woman wasn’t intimidating by physical standards, but Medical could do to take lessons from her in dealing with injured and determined 00-agents. Instead of saying something catty in return, he just nodded, accepting those terms before shoving off the sand and to his feet. He very nearly ended up back down again, and would have it he wasn’t… Well, James Bond. Sam actually looked a bit shocked and impressed as he steadied after only the first sway, muscles flexing and balance settling. He looked at and around himself, taking in the blood that had spattered his white button-down as well as the water and sand, and the way that most people had to have noticed his holster by now. M would worry that he’d blown cover, but everyone here was just so panicked that he doubted it even mattered - right now, survival was everything.

Which reminded him… He’d only survived, it seemed, due to a certain hacker that he’d been sent here to kill. Said hacker was nowhere in sight. “Where’s the fellow who brought me in? Slim, lanky fellow. Looks like birds make a nest of his hair?” he turned to ask, making the assumption that Q hadn’t just handed him off to someone before now. Although, considering their size differences and how generally unathletic Q looked, Bond wondered if he should rethink the odds of Q actually swimming him all the way to land…

Apparently he had, because Sam’s eyes immediately betrayed recognition. “Oh, Quint? Do you know him?”

Bond made a noise that could have been taken either way, keeping his cards close. He watched and waited, wanting to learn more before giving anything of himself away - be it truth or lies.

Sam took a deep breath and pushed straggling strands of black hair back behind her ears, looking around her and looking a bit downtrodden at the injured still left. Bond decided to take some initiative, seeing a possible ally if he played this right. He stepped forward to a man who was cradling his arm and moaning, thinking back to what first-aid all 00-agents learned: dislocated shoulder. “Care for some help?” he asked with careful friendliness - not too much, not too little. Sam was a canny woman, clearly, so 007 would be have to careful with her if he wanted her to keep talking and not grow more suspicious of him than she already was. Careful with his own injured arm, he dropped onto his haunches next to the injured man. “If you can make up for my arm-” He lifted the injured on with a little half-smile. “-I know how to put shoulders back into socket.”

Looking like she wanted to ask how he knew that, but seeing by the look in his eyes that he’d likely not tell, Sam pushed herself up and walked forward, nodding. “Let me get you a sling for that... Or something like it, anyway.” She grabbed a shirt that had already been torn to bits, and tore off a whole strip from the bottom, so that she ended up with a round strip of fabric. She slipped it around his neck and put his arm in it, her whole manner gentle but decisive. She was clearly used to people letting her do whatever she wanted. “That should do, at least until I can find something better. You can help, but if I see you using that arm, I’m benching you.”

Bond smirked at that idea, curious as to who would win if she were to try ‘benching him’ - considering that he was injured and she wasn’t, so far as he could tell, the odds were less in his favor than they otherwise would be. He accepted her care as gracefully as he could though, and then let her brace the other man’s arm and body while he used his weight and shoved the bone back into its socket. Neither he nor Sam bothered to really explain what they were doing, which worked out well, because before the moaning man knew what was happening, he was yelping and being released.

“Take your shirt of,” Sam ordered him. It earned her a leer from the guy, which she shot down with an unimpressed look of her own. The man started taking his shirt off.

As soon as she had it, she tore a large strip off it.

“Hey! That’s my favorite shirt!”

Would you rather walk around bleeding all over the place? It can be arranged…” she asked, sounding somewhere between amused and distasteful.

Bond watched, smirking, plucking absentmindedly at his new sling and looking around for his suit-jacket, silently lamenting that it had probably already had been used for bandaging. Maybe it was good that he’d been unconscious for that, because he would have been even more childish than this man was being about losing his shirt… “Considering that the only reason you can use your arm right now is because of this woman,” Bond added in his two cents, making the other man’s eyes snap to him, “you should probably listen to her.” It was truth that Bond had helped, but he decided that he didn’t need the glory - he was much better at being the quiet threat waiting in the background. Something of that calm threat must have shown in his eyes, because the man frowned and glanced uneasily between the doctor and the man with the shoulder holster.

They moved from person to person, Sam sometimes using Bond to hold someone down, hold someone’s limb this way or that and, on one memorable occasion, actually had him sit on someone who wouldn’t stop thrashing.

Suddenly, they heard commotion further down the beach. When they looked up, they saw two teenagers pulling, of all things, an air mattress onto the beach, bags and suitcases stacked on top of it. They were both down to their underwear, the girl in a bra and panties, the boy in boxershorts, and started tossing the luggage on the ground. As soon as they were done, they dragged the air mattress back into the sea and started swimming back to the airplane wreck in the distance. They actually looked to be having quite a bit of fun with their task, and many of the adults on the beach looked bemused, some even disapproving.

Since Sam hadn't called him back to help anymore (Bond should have felt more like a dog on a long leash, but he surprisingly didn’t, maybe because the black-haired doctor wasn't yanking his leash nearly as badly as MI6 did), the agent wandered towards the beach where the stuff had been piled. He wasn’t the organizing and yelling type, preferring solo work, but he was a bit annoyed that the teens’ hard work was being largely ignored by the adults on the beach. It was rare, in his experience, to see kids that age being so proactive, so he decided to do his part and grab some of the luggage in his good hand to drag it further from the edge of the lapping tide. Apparently seeing a man with only one usable arm doing all the work shamed others into working, because soon he had company.

“Your Quint organized them,” Sam said, at his elbow. She must have either gotten through the last of her patients, or was looking for more bandage-material. Probably both.

Bond was about to comment that there was nothing ‘his’ about Quint when a second set of teens dragged up a second mattress. “The Boss said to get the first aid kits to the doc first, and if any of you have medical stuff in your bags, please take it out and give it to her?” the boy said, looking at the people standing around.

The girl was already busy shoving people’s bags off of the mattress. She was none too careful about it, but at least she was fast. “There should be some paracetamol in my bag. That’s the red one over there by the by. Can someone get it out? Should be right at the top. We kind of have to get back asap, so…”

Bond stepped forward, gaining her attention by size alone as his shadow fell forward before him. Her eyes flicked up, first following his muscled frame, then finding his gun. The third stop her eyes made was on his arm in its sling, which visibly relaxed her. Bond smiled because he was pretty sure that he was still deadly even with one arm, but right now, being deemed less threatening was what he wanted anyway. “The doctor, you say?” he asked nonchalantly, and the little sound behind him could have been Sam snorting.

The teenage girl narrowed her eyes. “Yeah… What of it?”

Resisting the urge to bare his teeth at her spunk - reminding himself that he wasn't in a combat situation, but actually dealing with a teenager - Bond merely tipped his head back behind him, “She’s right there, and has been this whole time. Actually, if people would just get out of her way, she might go looking for that stuff herself.”

“Well, why didn't you say so before, huh?” the boy came to his friend’s rescue. Both their chins were up defiantly, and Bond subconsciously shifted his weight like he would for a fight. It was ridiculous, and he wouldn't actually do it, but reflexes were what they were...

“Anyway, so the medical supplies are in that pile. We gotta get back to the plane. You guys have a _lot_ of stuff with you! Ciao!” the girl said, grinning and dragging the mattress back in the ocean, her companion following, but not before he gave Bond a last defiant look, as if trying to tell him how Not Afraid he was. That, more than anything, had the edgy agent relaxing, because that look was just too adorable. It was nice to see it attached to a face that he wasn't supposed to kill.

Bond turned around, casting a lazy look at the people now watching them all, then called out with easy power, “You heard the brats - we’ve got stuff to move, so _move_!”

They all scrambled to obey. At the same time. There might've been some collisions. Sam gave him one more amused look before darting into the chaos and stepping out a few seconds later, victorious and without a hair out of place. She held three first aid kits in her hands.

“Right, break’s over. Let’s get to work, shall we, mister Bond?” She smirked at him, then turned back to the chaos. “And the girl is right, I want anything even resembling medical supplies or bandages over by the trees as soon as you find it!”

Bond followed after her, deciding to ask more about his target, Quint, and his unexpected leadership skills later.

~*~

As Quint wandered through the plane, looking for anything that would be of use, it became harder and harder to ignore the wreckage in the back of the plane. He’d had to have several people escorted out and put on swimming, air-mattress blowing, or loading duty because they couldn't handle it. They would have to come back later and bury the bodies, he decided. First get the necessities out, though…

When Quint stepped out onto the wings to see how things were going there - and not to get a bit of a breather from the air inside, not at all, thank you very much - he was just in time to catch the first of the teen-teams getting back from their beach-run.

“How’d it go?” he asked, genuinely curious. The idea to use air-mattresses as a sort of rubber boats was pure genius, that much was for sure. “Kept everything at least a little dry?”

The boy nodded happily. “It went really well, boss! The people on the beach should be unpacking now.”

Quint nodded. “While I’m still not your boss, you guys are doing great. Let someone else swim over the next load though. You two deserve a breather.”

“But boss-” the girl jumped in, looking offended.

“Give them a chance to feel useful as well, would you? Once you've actually had a chance to catch your breath, you can help load the next mattress. Also please keep an eye out for your mates. Tell them to let me know how their run went and if the medical supplies got there safely. Can you do that for me?”

They looked unhappy about it, but eventually both of them shrugged. “I guess,” the boy said. Then his eyes lit up. “Can we come help you?”

Quint thought back to the way the plane looked inside. One of the reasons he’d put the teens on swimming duty was to get them out of there. It was no place of a child. He wasn’t about to tell them that, though.

“Afraid not. I need you two out here on the wing loading the third mattress. It looks like they’re almost done blowing it up.”

The mattress in question was a double bed that one of his other volunteers had gotten once he’d found his bag. It would hold a lot of luggage, but also a lot of air, and the guy looked about ready to faint.

“Better yet, why don’t you two go and give that guy a break. Take turns blowing, because I need you to save your strength for the next swim!”

Their faces instantly brightened and the girl gave him one of the fake salutes they seemed to be so fond of. “Yes, boss-man sir!” she said, grinning.

He smiled fondly as he watched them make their way over to the unfortunate air-mattress blower. They were good kids, the lot of them. He just didn't get why they kept calling him boss. Or why they actually did what he told them to. Weren't teenagers supposed to be rebellious and stuff? As a matter of fact, everyone seemed to be looking at him to tell them what to do. It was honestly quite disconcerting. Quint was a computer-nerd, plain and simple. He worked alone and in groups he always ended up the odd one out. The one everyone accepted and ignored at best, sneered and looked down at at worst. It must be the shock of the crash. They would figure out that he was not the person to look up to soon enough…look to someone better suited to the role. Like Sam or that one guy with the hideous shirt.

Not that that mattered now. Right now he’d just have to do the best he could and make sure everything worked out for the best. Get as much useful stuff out of the airplane before the thing sank any further.

He looked over in time to see the second mattress arrive safely by the plane, the two teens pulling themselves back up on the wing and lying back, giggling about something or other. Seeing one of the volunteers grabbing hold of the mattress and loading it up with more stuff, he nodded at them in appreciation and went over to the two new arrivals. “Well, at least someone’s having fun…” he said dryly, looking down at them.

Instead of stopping the giggles, like he’d hoped, that just brought on a new wave. Quint wondered if someone could die from giggling too much.

“So did everything go well?” he asked, hoping to break them out.

And a new wave of giggles, again.

“Yeah...” the girl - he really needed to find out their names, before he started calling them by some silly movie or literature reference - tried, before breaking down in giggles again. “It’s just- Just- Sorry, I can’t seem to… But his face! Mister Grumpy-face!” And both of them were gone again.

Quint stared down at them, at a complete loss of what to do. He wondered if dunking kids in seawater was an acceptable solution to hysterical giggling. Somehow he didn’t think so.

“Oi, you two, stop giggling and come help! We've got a big one here and it’s not going to load itself up!”

The other girl had come over to see what was coming on and was now nudging her friend in the side with a toe. It only set off another round of giggles, but Quint was all too happy to let the four of them deal with it among each other. Besides, he was kind of glad at least someone was laughing...

Assured that this at least meant the kids would be taking something of a break, Quint wandered back into the plane and started pulling open baggage compartments over the chairs, pulling out small suitcases, bags, and coats. He could've asked someone to carry everything out, but if he was honest, he kind of liked doing it himself. It was about time he started doing something instead of ordering others around. Besides, this way he could keep an eye on the kids outside.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So all those comments? They make our days people, honest! You have no idea how happy and bouncy and excited we were to find so many of them. There might've been lots of excited yelling over chat involved, in between bursts of heightened productivity. It might've gone something like this: 'Another one! Another one! Have you seen [insert awesome comment thing here]? That's so cool! Whiiiii!'
> 
> It might not have happened like that. We like our plausible deniability when it comes to being absolutely bonkers and totally insane fangirls. But it might very well have gone something like that.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a grand battle of the generations... Or not, if it's up to Q. Also, Bond and Q meet properly, Q would kindly request everyone go on and tie their own shoelaces for a little while, and things start to get a little creepy crawly.

**** When Quint finally swam back, it was with the last load of luggage. He’d had a quick discussion with some of the more level-headed people on the plane and they finally decided that they would leave the bodies of the deceased for the day after. Quint hadn’t wanted to, but he also knew that he didn’t have the energy or the stomach to get them back to dry land, let alone to dig the holes to bury them in.

They had managed to wrench open the door to the cabin, but neither the pilot nor the co-pilot had made it. They’d closed the door again and the atmosphere among the volunteers had taken a turn for the worse. Quint was just glad the teens hadn’t been there to see that.

He sighed as they finally dragged the last of the mattresses up onto the beach. He wanted to just lay down in the sand and sleep for a week, but he couldn’t. Not yet.

Instead, he grabbed his laptop and hand-luggage, which he’d kept back until the last mattress, the one he’d be swimming with, to make sure they stayed absolutely, one-hundred percent dry - it felt like a selfish thing to do, but the thought of handing his laptop over to someone else… No. - and made his way over to the treeline, hoping to find Sam and update her on the situation on board of the plane, maybe make plans.

He found her seated against a tree, eating a candy-bar beside, of all people, Bond. She must’ve heard him approach, because she took one look at him and held out another one of the candy-bars. “Sit. Eat. You’re not going to do anyone any good if you collapse. It’s not much, but it’s sugar, so at least it’ll keep us going until someone manages to whip up some real food.”

Bond had watched Q come up with alert eyes, a bottle of water in his hand and his own food rations already eaten. Looking at the hacker - barely dressed and dripping wet, the sun already turning his pale skin an angry pink across his shoulders - he felt a disconcerting jerk of confusion that was rare for him. _This_ was what he was sent to kill? This was the villain who had ripped his way into MI6’s computers and had stolen away information that could seal the deaths of nearly every agent in the field? Bond should have been thinking of ways to kill him while they were on the island and the body would be easy to hide, but instead he found himself sitting perfectly still where he was, a wolf caught at the edge of twilight.

Quint let himself fall into the sand, completely oblivious to Bond’s confusion. He hadn’t realised just how hungry he was until he took his first bite. Then the bar was gone within seconds.

Sam laughed and offered him a second candybar and an apple that seemed more than a bit beaten up. “Hungry?”

Quint looked at her with what he’d mentally named his ‘No shit, Sherlock’ face for a moment, before deciding food took priority over people being idiots and proceeding to stuff the second candybar in his mouth. Sam just laughed.

It was almost startling when Bond moved. The man had been sitting so still that he seemed more like an accessory of Sam’s than anything else, his arm shifting restlessly in its sling but muscled body otherwise still. It wasn’t until he suddenly moved to lean forward that he became suddenly noticeable again, extending his water-bottle towards Q. “Here. You’ve been out swimming, but that’s all saltwater.” As the man moved, long legs lowering, his holster and gun became visible like a visual punch to the gut.

Quint froze, staring openly at the gun, not even reaching for the bottle. In his head, he tried to come up with reasons why a chef - he’d said that he was a chef, right? At a restaurant? Quint was about 87% certain that he had - would be carrying a gun. While on an airplane. Where they didn’t allow guns. That just didn’t make sense, unless… But no. He’d been so careful. There was no way they’d found him. The only one who’d known where he was headed was Silverfish, and he’d been the one to warn Quint in the first place! It just wasn’t possible. He’d seen their work and MI6’s hackers just weren’t that good. There was no way. But if there was… But on the other hand, if they knew who he was, if Bond was what he thought he might be, and knew who he was, then why was he just sitting there? Advertising the fact that he was armed, no less.

It just didn’t make sense. Had to be something else. He’d figure it out.

He mentally shook himself out of it. The whole mental breakdown had only taken a few seconds. Quint snatched the bottle out of Bond’s hands and let himself fall back into the sand. He suddenly felt very naked and very, very vulnerable. “Did either of you happen to see where my bag or clothes ended up? Or did you use all of it for bandages, Sam?”

Sam chuckled, and maybe it was a bit of an evil chuckle. “Your bag might be somewhere, but you shirt is here.” She pointed at Bond’s head, and then his sling.

Quint looked at the sling a moment, the familiarity of the fabric registering only now. “Right,” he said, sounding tired and amused in the way only people too tired to be upset about anything could sound amused. He lifted his head enough to catch the blonde man’s eye, which flickered with surprise briefly before a cheeky smile settled across his face. The unexpected humor lighting those brilliant blue eyes seemed genuine as Bond slipped his arm out of its sling, causing the doctor next to him to immediately scowl and protest. Bond moved easily, however, ignoring her and stretching up to stand, which suddenly put him at looming level.

The feeling of vulnerability that’d wavered at the smile tripled in size.

All Bond did was eye him briefly - eyes skating over Quint from crown to heel, but in a look so swift that it was like a moth’s touch, gone before the smaller man could properly recognize it - and then shift a shoe forward to nudge Q’s bare foot. “I think your clothes are in that pile of suitcases over there, if they’re anywhere at all. And since you seem to be the unofficial leader of the youthful hooligans-”

Quint squinted up at him through his fractured glasses. “The what of the who now?” he asked, shaking his head as if trying to shake off his confusion.

Bond just shrugged and talked over him easily, voice low and quiet but undeniably confident, “Regardless, the Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles are all over there nosing through the luggage, and if they keep that up, someone is just going to get peeved enough to take a swing at them. It looks like everyone is still shell-shocked, but I can see at least four people who are more angry than numb.” Bond hooked a thumb off to their right, and Quint’s eyes followed involuntarily - effectively distracting him from the fact that the probably-not-a-chef had just referenced ninja turtles - to see, indeed, that the kids were standing amidst the piles of bags, and a handful of adults were beginning to give them ugly looks from the treeline. Quint hadn’t noticed, but somehow this man had. Even Sam looked a bit startled, and suddenly worried as she, too, saw what could be about to happen.

When Quint looked back, Bond’s eyes were waiting for him - and, for the briefest second, flicked down to his gun. He knew everyone could see it. There was something cold and wintry in that blue gaze after that, as if saying, _‘So. Both you and I know that I’m armed. Your move. What do you want to make of it?’_ First, though, there was a possible altercation between two generations to deal with…

Did this day ever end? Also, could it get any more surreal? On second thought, Quint really didn’t want to know the answer to those questions. He didn’t think he’d like them. First the flight, which seemed a lifetime away now, but was only this morning - how was that only this morning? - then the crash, getting everyone out, dragging Bond to shore, finding out that he was now, apparently, the person everyone expected to tell them what to do, back to the bloody plane, working along with everyone else to get everything out, dealing with people’s breakdowns, all the while not looking at… He wasn’t even going to think about that. And now Bond. Bloody Bond who was giving him a whiplash, the way he was going back and forth between Really Hot, Really Nice Guy, and Scary As Fuck. What the hell was wrong with this guy?

Oh, and apparently now everyone expected him to do something about teenagers getting on people’s nerves. Because teenagers getting on adults’ nerves never happened. This was a completely new scenario and not only that, but Quint, socially incapable, scrawny, nerdy, no-experience-with-kids-that-weren’t-punks-trolling-online-games-whatsoever Quint was now apparently the perfect person to deal with it. Fuck, this couldn’t be more backwards if the plane had flown into a mirror-reality.

Actually, that explanation made more sense than anything else he could come up with.

Fuck it.

“Fuck it.” And with that, Quint got up and stalked over to the kids, glaring daggers at the idiots that went for adults in this reality. They actually cringed.

“What are you four doing now?”

They actually looked a bit sheepish. He really hadn’t meant to snap at them the way he had, but he was just so very done with today and with people and with the world at large. All he wanted, all he really wanted was some dark corner to curl up in with a cup of earl grey and his laptop and roughly 48 hours of undisturbed, uninterrupted alone-time, and then for the world to go back to normal. Was it really that much to ask for? Really?

“We thought, since these bags’re unclaimed, we’d look through them… See if there’s anything useful in here, see? Like meds or something.” The boy - and why did he still not know what his name was? - looked unsure.

Quint took a deep breath and, with a momentous effort, managed to reign in his temper. Of all the people on this bloody island, these kids had actually been the most helpful and the least vexing through the whole ordeal. They didn’t deserve his ire and he knew it. He managed a shaky smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. You guys are only trying to help… But see, some people who are here haven’t been able to seek out their bags yet. I’m one of them, actually. And I don’t think they’ll like it if people have been going through them. Why don’t you guys see if you can find some food and then set up camp somewhere under the trees? It’s already getting dark, and at least you have proper camping…  stuff.” He looked at them pleadingly, hoping to any deity who’d listen that they would actually settle the hell down after they were done setting up camp. The sun was setting, and he didn’t think he could take much more without actually, honestly snapping and going stark raving mad. Heh, Stark.

Four heads nodded, apprehensive looks still in place.

“Go on then, set up camp! You four will have the most luxurious hang-out of this whole place!” He actually managed a real smile for them this time, and with a breezy “Yes boss!” they were off.

Quint gave a relieved sigh and seemed to deflate on the spot. He started picking through the luggage to find his own suitcase, hoping to any deity that would listen that there was something dry for him to wear in there.

Bond had watched this whole thing from a short ways away, having followed at a cautious distance. He was moving so that his gun showed as little as possible, likewise carrying himself with a slow, rolling step so that eyes wouldn’t move to him despite his imposing build and armed appearance - usually this was difficult, but he needn’t have worried this time, because pretty much everyone was staring at the nearly naked boffin boffin stalking across the sand. It was something to see, even by Bond’s standards: Q, scrawny and knobbly, dressed in nothing but his pants and a pair of cracked glasses knocked slightly askew, hair sticking in all possible directions, stalking over a tropical beach and glaring so hard that it was somehow bloody intimidating. If Bond didn’t have standing orders to kill him, it would have been quite a turn-on, to be honest. As it was, 007 reminded himself that this slim thing was one of the biggest threats MI6 had faced in his memory, and as soon as it became convenient, he was going to have to put him down.

The agent continued to watch and more or less stare as Q went through and found his luggage, which eventually included clothing. He pulled it on swiftly, with hurried movements as if he’d had more than enough of people looking at him, and Bond’s trained eye noted slightly shaking hands. Not that he could really blame the fellow - even James was tense, being stranded on an island in less than peak condition. Even having his gun didn’t really calm him, because he couldn’t very well shoot it with his right hand at the moment, not unless he wanted to turn a fractured bone into a splintered one.

All around, tensions were only going to get higher.

Sam was going to notice him and his obsession soon. The doctor was quick, and James actually didn’t really want to get on her bad side, so he left Quint to his business and turned back to the black-haired woman who barely stood higher than his elbow. He’d told Q he was a chef and had given Sam the impression that he was a budding physician… he was going to have to start keeping his covers straight at this rate. Although, honestly, he hardly thought it mattered by this point.

Because he doubted that anyone believed that he was either a physician or a chef when he carried a gun and couldn’t stop walking like a predator.

~^~

“Quint, is it?” a smooth voice reached the bespectacled man, and although the sound of feet shifting over sand should have pre-empted the voice, there was no warning before Quint had someone standing at his back.

Quint jumped and spun around. For goodness sake! He’d finally managed to get away from the discussions with Sam and Bond, had thought he might finally get a moment of peace and quiet. But oh no, the universe was apparently not done with him yet. Joy of joys. Jaj. Etcetera. Gods, even his inner voice sounded too exhausted to be properly sarcastic.

“What is it now?” he asked, honestly incapable of not sounding anything but peeved by this point. He wanted to yell at the guy, tell him to leave Quint the hell alone and go tie his own bloody shoelaces on his own for a bit, leave a message after the beep and I will get back to you, beeeeeep! But once again, it was not his fault that Quint’s day sucked. Understatement of the century, that.

He was middle-aged, with bleached blonde hair and a square jaw. Quint vaguely recognised him as one of the other passengers. Unlike the other passengers, he seemed perfectly composed despite the circumstances, with his canted eyes perfectly relaxed and his appearance barely mushed. The smile on his face transformed smoothly and completely into a look of concern, and a hand reached out, cupping Q’s elbow with a large hand. “My dear, I’m sorry to interrupt. My name is Raoul Silva. I assumed that, since you’d been organizing everyone to leave the plane and look for water, that you’d be in charge, so I took it upon myself to report back to you - but you look exhausted.” The voice was full of honey, sweet and lulling, but the hand was surprisingly stubborn as it cradled the bones of Q’s elbow. “I was one of those that you sent out to get water.”

“So everyone is back?”

“Oh no…” smiled the other man, a broad stretching of his lips, and he stepped slightly closer to add with quiet pride, “I just wanted to tell you that I’ve found water.”

“I seem to remember Sam told you to stay by the water and call one of us to you if you found it?” Quint frowned. Damn it, if this idiot had found clean water and then lost it again, just because he was too eager to get credit for it, he was going to do…something. Bang his head into a coconut tree, maybe. They really did need that water if they were going to survive, and they needed it soon, especially the wounded.

“Oh, but of course,” the larger man smiled, untroubled, which was both rather maddening and disturbing, “You see, I called one of the other searchers to my location, and instructed him to stay. Now I can lead you back. Unless, of course, you’re too tired?” One pale eyebrow cocked, and it was hard to tell if the look was patronizing or challenging.

Quint looked at him, sceptically. “You do realise that you could’ve just called one of us, right? Instead of jeopardizing someone finding a possible secondary source of water?” Damn it. No snapping. No snapping, Quint. “Either way, I think the person you want to speak to about this is the doctor, Sam. She’s right over there.”

It wasn’t going to be that easy, apparently - but what was easy for Quint these days? Bloody nothing… The guy’s smile just hardened a barely discernible fraction and his head tipped, bird-like interest taking on a hawk-like quality. “Oh, come now, Q - don’t you think I would have found that woman if she was the one I’d wanted?”

Quint blinked up at him, frowning. “What? What is that supposed to mean?” What the hell? Did they have a misogynist asshole on their hands, or what?

Something flickered across the man’s expression - something that looked a lot like cunning, but was gone too quickly to be identified with certainty. The man suddenly changed tactics. He made that tisking noise again, but this time it seemed to be at himself. “Ahhh, I see, I see! Let a man apologize, Quint, dear,” the man employed, but went on before any response could be formulated, “You see, I’m used to picking out the real leaders - sometimes, the person giving the orders isn’t really the one to follow, although your Dr. Sam is indeed very capable. No slight on her person was meant.” Silva’s voice was now slick with apology, sweet and smooth while his hand shifted from Q’s elbow to his shoulder. “But really - no one has named you leader? Not even after the number of lives you saved on the plane?”

Quint stared at him, at a loss for word. What the hell? That was honestly the only description his befuddled mind could come up with. He took a deep breath. “Let’s go to Sam.” She could deal with this idiot. He was done for the day. So very done.

Fortunately, Silva decided to follow quietly this time. He still kept close, and it was like having a shadow at one’s back - the pale-skinned man seemed to do it naturally. Whenever Quint’s balance seemed to shift on the sand, Silva’s hand was always there. Quint wanted to turn around and tell him to back off, but he kept quiet. Yes, the man was creeping him out, but all he had to do was foist him off on Sam, who’d read him his rights if he dared disrespect her, and he could sleep. Besides, Quint’s personal space was known to be larger than most, so he might not be completely rational about all this...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not only do we love comments, but we take them, add some fangirlism, some geekasm and lots of angst and make them into More Fic. You guys are awesome, just saying!
> 
> Also, Truth has a horrible test of horrible this afternoon, so let's all wish her luck!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the minions give their king a throne (or something like that, anyway), Sam calls them as she sees them and Bond and Silva glare at each other. A lot.

“Sam…?”

She held up her hand and went back to what she was doing. Only after she tied the last knot did she sit up on her knees and looked up. “I thought you were going to catch some shuteye?” she asked, giving him a disapproving look.

Quint held up his hands in surrender, then gestured to Silva. “Would if I could… This guy here says he found water.”

“Water?” she looked up, hope in her eyes. “How clean?”

“Very,” the man smiled graciously, although he still seemed only mildly interested in her, and didn’t leave his position right at Quint’s side. Against the tree, Bond’s eyes snapped open, two points of blue seeming to appear like magic as the man went from asleep to awake instantly. Otherwise, he didn’t move, eyes simply flicking between Silva, Sam, and then moving to Q, where the gunman silently raised an eyebrow in question.

Quint shrugged, giving Bond a helpless look. “He came to me, but since you sent them out in the first place and seemed to know what you’re doing…” Quint shrugged again.

Sam looked from one to the other with a raised eyebrow, then nodded. “I did. Which raises the question: If you found water, what are you doing here in the first place, mister…?”

“Raoul Silva,” the name flowed off the man’s tongue like honey, but while his tone was polite, he still didn’t extend a hand. “And I was deep enough into the jungle that I feared I would not be heard all the way back here - so I called another searcher to me instead. You need not worry, someone is watching the water.”

Bond seemed to be growing fidgety, although it was hard to tell. The man was still mostly motionless, arms folded across his lap (his sling mysteriously misplaced, no doubt on purpose), but his expression had grown subtly more stormy the longer he watched the exchange. Finally, Silva himself noticed, and glanced over at the gunman - and did a doubletake.

“And who might you be?” Silva asked, still all smiles but with an edge of curiosity now that seemed subtly threatening.

Tension charged the air like lightning coiled up between clouds, and a muscle flicked in Bond’s jaw. It suddenly seemed likely that he would jump up and attack, regardless of the fact that he had no bloody reason to (and had broken bones besides) - instead, however, he suddenly twisted his mouth into a razored smile. “No one of importance,” he replied with acidic friendliness. His eyes were like cut glass as he fixed them unwaveringly on Silva.

Quint raised an eyebrow at both of them, but sighed tiredly and looked away. He felt exhausted. “So who’s going?” he asked, very consciously not volunteering himself.

Sam gave him a crooked smile, obviously seeing right through him. “You’re not, that much I know.”

Quint sagged in relief.

“And I’m stuck here. There is more to do before I can go to sleep… Although fresh water will make the job more sanitary. Then again, there are enough others around who could stand to actually do something for a change. How is the walk there, mister Silva?”

The man had actually made a bit of a face at the mention of Q staying put, but it was barely a ripple on his expression, and smoothed out instantly as he answered, “A bit rugged, considering that this place is entirely deserted - but far from an impossible trek, my dear.”

“Could you make it back?” Bond suggested, and his tone was so transparent that it was obvious that he meant, _‘Can you just go away again into the forest where I don’t have to think about you?’_ Suddenly, it was as if the man’s manners had flown right out the window, and he was only making the barest efforts to conceal it.

Sam gave him a disapproving look, one eyebrow raised as if to ask him what the hell he thought he was doing now, but kept quiet. Quint, in turn, seemed absorbed in not looking at the two of them.

“I’ll go,” the armed man said suddenly, shifting to his feet with only the slightest twinge to show that his cracked ribs hadn’t just disappeared in the past few hours.

“You?” Sam actually sounded upset now. “You wish. You have a possible concussion, a broken arm, and several broken ribs. You’re bloody mad if you think I’d let you go.” She glared at him. “No. No way, no how.”

Standing, it was obvious just how much bigger Bond was than the petite doctor, even if her fiery attitude made her seem a bit larger than life. However, instead of using his size to intimidate, he flashed her a smile that was far more charming than the one he’d been trying to eviscerate Silva with up until now. “As flattered as I am about your worry, I’m going,” he said, wrapping stubbornness up inside of genteel charm. “Besides, you said that it’s my own fault if I break myself more than I already am.” His eyes glinted cheekily even though it was clear that he hadn’t turned his back on Silva yet, his attention still divided between Sam, Quint, and the pale-haired newcomer.

Sam grinned, appreciating his cheek even if she didn’t appreciate him going against her orders. “You are a pain, Bond, a pain. I guess I can’t stop you, though, if you insist on getting yourself mangled or killed by going into a jungle in the dark. You had better come back, though, because I’m not done yelling at you for being an utter idiot. Now let me get you two some things to carry the water back with. Most of the search party is actually back, but if you meet anyone else on your way there, please send them back. It’s getting dark and we don’t know what’s in that jungle.”

Q smiled at her gratefully. That was how a leader was supposed to act. He honestly didn’t get why people would call him a leader when she was right there. He was about to ask if it was alright if he retired when he felt something tug on his sleeve.

He turned around, only to see one of the teens.

“Hey boss…?”

She looked shy in a way that he hadn’t seen of any of them yet. It was disconcerting in a way that he didn’t want to examine too closely. He managed an encouraging smile for her. “I thought I told you not to call me that?” he asked, but his face never lost the smile and she just shrugged, still oddly shy.

“Yeah, I know, but… Well. Anyway, I was- we were wondering… See, I’ve got this extra hammock, but I’ve also got an air-mattress, so…”

She gave a nervous giggle, then fell quiet. Not really knowing what else to do, Quint settled for looking at her expectantly and staying quiet.

Eventually, she seemed to regroup. “So, I guess what I was wondering if you had a place to sleep yet, and if maybe you wanted to use my mattress? I mean, you’ve got to be tired, what with all of…” She made an all-encompassing gesture. “This, I guess. And it’s got to be more comfy than the sand, so…”

He stared at her, wide-eyed and a bit befuddled. That was… Unexpected, in the least. Very sweet, too. And a bed - well, close enough to one, anyway - did sound good. He looked over at the rest, still quibbling, not paying that much attention to him for once, and shrugged. “That’s really sweet of you. And you’re right, I could really use a good night’s sleep. Lead on?”

Her smile brightened to epic proportions, even if the signs of exhaustion were visible in her face as much as anyone else’s. “Awesome! Come on, I’ll show you the camp! Hasan figured out where everything should go. He’s pretty awesome at that sort of stuff! And Tara and I hung a bag in one of the trees so that the wild animals can’t reach our supplies. I saw that in a movie once! And we put it under the trees, a bit away from the rest. Raman is trying to make fire now…”

She’d barely said it before a bright light pierced the emerging darkness.

“Looks like he did it, too. It’s one of those gas-thingies for cooking, but we figured it’d be good to have some light, right?”

Quint let her babble on, mentally making note of the names, but otherwise not paying too much attention. He picked up his bags and laptop-case and waved off her offer for help.

The camp did look good. They looked like they knew what they were doing, or at least the boy called Hasan did. Quint wondered which one that was. As it was, the three teens were huddled around the tiny fire. As soon as they heard them approach, though, they turned over to them.

“You came!” one of the boys said, sounding happy.

“Yeah, I guess I did… The promise of a real mattress was too much to resist!”

They laughed. “It’s even got blankets now,” the other girl - Tara? - put in. “Not that it’s cold enough to need it, but it does!”

“It sounds lovely,” Quint said, smiling for real now, even if his exhaustion still shone through. “And you have fire! Do you know if anyone else came as well prepared as you four?”

The boy holding on to the gas-tank shrugged. “Some people have things, and I saw at least three other bags that looked like they had camping gear with the unclaimed luggage, boss. You said not to take it out, though…”

Quint smiled at him. “Yeah, maybe tomorrow though, because I have a feeling we’re going to need all we can get. So… You’re Raman, right? Ramon? Roman?”

“Raman. And this is Hasan,” he pointed at the other boy. “She’s Tara and that’s Ishya.”

“Raman, Hasan, Tara, and Ishya… I’m going to try my best to remember, but please excuse me if I don’t?”

“Of course!” all of them called out. Then they looked at each other and broke into giggling.

Quint smiled. “You guys have way too much energy. So I really hope you don’t think me rude for asking this, and we will talk more tomorrow, but… Where did you put that mattress?”

They looked a bit apologetic. “Oh! Of course, boss! Don’t worry about it… Here, let me show you,” Ishya said, pulling him a little further up the beach, where four mattresses and a hammock where hidden by the treeline. “I hope it’s alright?”

“Alright?” Quint looked at her confused. “You guys let me use your things when I’d be sleeping on the floor otherwise.”

She smiled, shy again. “Least we could do, boss… For, you know… So, well, good night?”

And with that, she was off, back to her friends and the fire.

Quint didn’t even bother removing his clothes, just put his things behind the mattress, slid under the blankets and made himself comfortable. His head had barely touched the mattress before he was asleep.

~*~

Darkness was falling, but out of everyone from the plane crash, Bond and Silva were the most adapted to moving where only shadows lived. Neither knew exactly what to make of the other, but predators recognized their own. Even though Silva was reputedly the leader of this little trek, he often fell back, as if he intended to fall into step on Bond’s right side - his injured side. That more than anything had the agent’s hackles up, and he deftly kept his left side to the other man whenever possible, if he didn’t stay behind him entirely.

“Now, Bond,” Silva chided, having learned the other man’s name from Sam when Bond had stubbornly refused to give it, “This is hardly friendly, glaring at a man’s back the whole time he walks. Do you not trust me?”

“I don’t _know_ you,” 007 corrected in a neutral, unreadable tone. So far, the island hadn’t shown signs of being home to any particularly dangerous fauna, but James knew that the most dangerous animals were humans, and something about Silva was pricking like claws at James’s spine. To make matters worse, James was feeling his injuries, despite what he’d told Sam. The doctor was smart, and had immediately started rationing pain medication unless absolutely necessary - and since there were many people far more injured than Bond, that meant he had a headache that was growing worse by the moment, and his arm and chest ached with every motion. He still thought that he could hold his own in a fight, but he could feel the discomfort gnawing at the edges of his concentration.

Silva, on the other hand, was as chipper and fine as a cat just let out of the house. The look he’d been favoring Q with had also resembled a cat just let out...one that had spotted an oblivious bird. That bothered Bond more than it should have, but he blamed it on the fact that Q had saved his life. _‘Why do the villains always have to be complicated?’_ he complained inwardly, picturing the man who’d hacked MI6 and seeing only harmless glasses and a scarecrow figure, _‘One of these days I want to go after a target who is as evil as hell and deserves a bullet faster than I can load one.’_ This was possibly the first time in recent memory, Bond realized, that he was mad at someone for _saving_ his _life_.

“Bloody Quint,” he grumbled, managing to interpose the alias instead of the hacking title, even though his headache was dulling him.

Silva, walking just a little ahead and to his left, angled his head back with a knowing expression, as if he’d noticed. A little smile just roved at the corner of his broad mouth, but his eyes remained dark and cold. “Are your wounds hurting you, James?”

The use of his first name now hadn’t escaped the agent. Blue eyes snapping up from watching for snakes and branches underfoot to latch onto the man in front of him. “You heard the doctor as well as I did,” he dodged the question in a surly tone, because anyone with a brain tended to avoid Bond when he got this openly unfriendly, “With as many cracked bones as I’ve got, hurting is about the only option.” Then he added, because his instincts were screaming at him to hide weakness, “But I figure I can draw my gun left-handed and be pretty efficient at killing things.” He was tempted to try it. Maybe if he put one or two bullets in Silva’s legs, the man would stop irritating him and setting off his self-preservation instincts.

Silva’s smile faded a bit, and he slowed as he walked, his reflexes clearly disliking having James at his back...probably about as much as James disliked having Silva on his injured side. The two ended up stopping altogether. “You don’t like me, do you?” Silva hummed, tipping his head with a regretful expression on his face. His little frown was over-expressed, and his tone remained as polite as it had been before with Q or Dr. Sam, only James was less inclined to believe or go along with it. “Now, that’s a pity, James, because I really think we’re quite alike. Both dangerous-” He gestured to Bond’s sidearm, but his eyes moved from Bond’s shoes to his head, clearly indicating all of him in a way that had Bond’s pale eyes narrowing. Silva’s smile spread like an oil-slick. “-In our own way. Both wanting to get out of this unfortunate incident alive.”

Probably the most frustrating part of all of this was that Bond couldn’t say with certainty what it was that he hated about Silva. Petty hatred was one thing - and Silva was definitely annoying - but there was something beyond that which unsettled the agent in Bond, but he didn’t have enough intel to say for certain whether this was a legitimate threat. So, instead of making a decision that would likely end in violence and uncomfortable questions from the rest of the stranded crew, 007 looked away, breaking eye-contact first. “Fine then. Let’s get to this water you say you found. Whoever you left behind there must be crawling out of their skin by now.”

Immediately Silva was all smiles, making a pleased noise as he turned graciously back to the path again. The two continued walking, and although the tension had been hidden, it was still there.

“Quint Locke?” Silva piped up suddenly, not turning around or shifting pace, “That’s his name, isn’t it? The delectable little boffin who organized the evacuation from the plane and then coordinated the search for water?”

“The doctor did that,” Bond corrected automatically, his mind having already honed in on the mention of Q. Silva was clearly starting this conversation on purpose, but Bond decided to take the bait, “And if you asked him, he’d say that he’s not the leader of anything. Although those teenagers seem to follow him well enough.” Although he’d never admit it it, seeing Q dealing with the rambunctious youngsters was rather adorable - especially when the bespectacled young man got flustered by them.

Silva made a humming noise, not deterred. “Ah, but doesn’t he have the skills of a leader, beneath those rumpled clothes and that unassuming appearance? I was quite taken by him,” Silva said conversationally. “It’s not often that you see something so obviously valuable hidden beneath so much distraction.”

Suspicion crawled with cold, corpse fingers up Bond’s back, because his mind immediately went to his mission: Q, a hacker hidden in the guise of a harmless young man. Silva was hitting too close to the mark - or at least he seemed to be far too interested in Quint Locke, the man James was supposed to kill eventually. It wasn’t normal for Bond to get defensive of a target, but he felt the muscles between his shoulder-blades knotting, tension creeping up his spine. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Because 007 was an agent, trained to laugh while the world was crumbling, he was able to say this as flippantly as if he’d been remarking on the weather - totally disinterested. It had the effect of making Silva frown again, and Bond counted that as a win for the evening.

But Silva was a dogged sort of personality, and apparently his interest in Q wasn’t just a fleeting attempt at conversation. “You really don’t find him intriguing?”

“No,” Bond lied easily...and then was disturbed by how much of a lie it was. It should have been at least mostly true. Pushing down his disquiet, Bond continued in a sharper tone and a flex of his right wrist to center himself with the spark of pain. “And I was under the impression that we’d just survived a plane crash and were trying to survive, not wax poetic about fellow passengers that catch your eye.”

“Of course, James,” Silva relented too easily, still using the gunman’s first name like an intimate collar around his neck. “Of course. Ah, and here we are. Mr. Howards, are you still there? Good man, good man…people will be very proud of you for guarding their water so stalwartly in my absence.” Silva strode like a king into the little clearing where he’d left a nervous-looking little man to watch the meandering creek he’d found.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments? What are these comments you speak off? Certainly not the reason we sit here, renewing our inbox every 30 seconds, hoping to see... Something. But not comments. Definitely not comments.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bond sleepwalks, Q doesn't get quantum-entangled, switched, teleported or even kidnapped, Bond ruins his chances at breakfast, the minions are Named and Bond doesn't like them at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Both of us forgot just how much we loved this chapter and then ended up giggling through most of the final read through because... Well, you'll just have to read and find out why!

It was pitch-black out, water had been dragged back in great quantities despite the fact that Bond was injured, Silva liked to avoid work, and Mr. Howards was clearly starving from having waited in the jungle for so long. A few trips would surely be made in the morning, but Sam had taken one look at the returning trio and told them to give the water to her and go to sleep. By that point, Bond’s surly expression and attitude had tipped into downright homicidal, and while Silva blithely ignored it, poor Mr. Howards kept edging away as if the blue-eyed man had transformed into an alligator. The glower was a bit hard to miss…

To put it mildly, this day was not ending well, and honestly, Bond just wanted to shoot something by the time he slipped away from Silva and left Sam to divvy out the water to those not asleep already. The thought of going back to her for painkillers sounded immensely appealing, but he worried that he’d just end up doing something violent as his temper and pain meshed into one horrible monster... Which it would, if Silva was still hanging around. The large, pale-haired man made him nervous, more so since Silva had shown such an interest in Q.

Bond’s feet had been taking him down the beach without him realizing it, an angry stride that warned people not to get in his way even as he sought to blow off energy he didn't have. He was exhausted. It was a poor combination: hurting, on edge, and weary. M would say that he needed to be put in a padded cell for awhile, probably, because he usually went and blew things up at times like this.

Instead, he found himself scanning the shadows and people as he passed, looking for a familiar, slim figure.

If Silva was so intrigued by Quint Locke, then it meant that he might start to find out information about Q the hacker. Bond couldn't care less, of course, if this caused problems for Q, but since this was all tangled up in delicate MI6 information, the threat struck home with James, too - ergo, he had to find Q. Bond liked to be in control and with Silva sniffing around like this, he felt that control slipping through his fingers. The only way he could see to get it back would be to stick to Q like a bur for a little while. Thoughts of killing the smaller man actually fled the agent’s mind for a moment as he simply focused on this new threat, the unknown entity called Raoul Silva.

Bond huffed in unsurprised amusement, finally spotting the glint of removed glasses and the silhouette of tousled hair - a combination unlike any other in this sorry expedition. Q was holed up with the teenagers. Go figure. Silencing his steps as easily as a cat padding alone, Bond moved in that direction, noting each sleeping person he passed. The teens had come prepared on this trip, that was for sure. Bond smirked as he saw a hammock, a girl snoring lightly in it. He stepped past another boy on an air mattress, not rousing the kid despite the fact that he walked by close enough to touch and actually stepped over a limply outstretched arm. Q was just beyond the rest of them, a few blankets kicked around his feet like offerings to a computer-geek god.

 _‘If I’m thinking things like that, maybe I do have a concussion,’_ Bond admitted to himself as he stopped, eyes narrowed as he just stared at his sleeping target for a moment. Q was even more harmless-looking while asleep, curled up on the mattress as if he was trying to protect himself from the big bad world outside his blankets. If Bond didn't ache just about everywhere, didn't have the headache to end all headaches, and didn't have an order to kill resting on his shoulders, he might have given into the urge to pull those blankets up over Q’s hunched shoulders. Instead, the agent made a soft noise of frustration and then folded his legs, sitting down with a moody (but quiet) thump. Blue eyes remained slitted in the dark.

Killing Q would have to wait - there were too many unaccounted variables, too many risks. Even if Bond forewent his gun and killed the smaller man in a less obvious fashion, too many people already looked to Q, meaning too many questions would be asked. Actually, without Q playing the unwilling leader, people might just die before being rescued as they quibbled over who _should_ be.

“I hate you,” Bond muttered, meaning it. He actually said it loudly enough that the body on the mattress twitched, but the hacker didn't wake. Deciding that he was in for the long haul instead of a short, quick game, Bond sighed and turned to stretch himself out on the ground next to Q’s air-mattress, his frame aching too much to think about how he’d explain his presence there. He’d figure that out in the morning, when his mind wasn't tangled in a net of questions and he wasn't so fucking tired.

~*~

Awareness came slowly, as it did most days that Quint wasn't woken by the blaring of his alarm clock. He vaguely mused he must've done a stint of impressive narco-coding if he’d forgotten to close the blinds again. At least it left him pleasantly warm. He luxuriated in the feeling of waking with the sun on his skin for a moment, but then decided that more sleep was in order and if there weren't any alarms going off, nothing was important enough to take that away from him. He squeezed his eyes shut and rolled over to shield them from the sunlight… Only to jump at an odd squeaky noise. The movement brought more squeaky sounds and the realization slowly sank into Quint’s sleep-addled mind that he was not in his own bed, nor in a hotel or anything resembling that.

The whole previous day came rushing back to him, and he abruptly opened his eyes, only to jump again as he stared directly into the sleeping face of the very man who might or might not be there to kill/torture/kidnap him.

Quint’s heart was beating so hard it seemed like it was trying to break loose from his chest and he scrambled back, fell over his own luggage and into a tree, only to land on his arse, staring wide-eyed at the blonde man.

Bond stirred and Quint held his breath, hoping to hell that the man would stay the fuck asleep. What the bloody hell was he even doing there? It wasn't like the beach wasn't big enough or anything. But oh no, he just had to go and lie right next to Quint. Was it some kind of tactic? Was he trying to scare the living daylights out of Quint so that Quint would give up his associates or something? Was he trying to intimidate Quint? If he was, it was working, but like hell was Quint going to give him any information. Not that he knew much anyway, but people deserved to be free, deserved not to be haunted by their past and…

Bond moved. Quint froze all over.

Damn it, he had to get out of here.

He snatched away his laptop, not at all comfortable leaving it anywhere near the possible - possible, he reminded himself, not definite, nothing definite about it, MI6 didn't know.  _Couldn't_  know… - MI6 spy… Secret agent… Thingy. Then he got up as silently as he could and sneaked away, figuring he’d find another place to be. Somewhere that wasn't near Bond.

~*~

As Quint walked over the beach in the morning sun, he began to calm down enough to think clearly. It was early enough that even here in the tropics the sea wind was still fresh and it wasn't too warm. Around him, people were sleeping in improvised encampments or simply in the sand. Most of them had clustered together. Quint smiled a little when the noticed the mother with her two daughters, the mother and one of the girls still peacefully asleep, while the youngest of the two was busy building a sandcastle all over her mother’s legs. She looked up as he passed and he grinned and gave her a thumbs up.

She smiled happily back at him and went back to shaping a wobbly looking tower at about the same place where her mother’s feet should be.

He was overreacting. There could be a multitude of reasons why Bond had gone to sleep there. He could be… Actually, Quint couldn't really come up with a viable reason right now, but there had to be some other explanation. Maybe something had happened the night before, and Bond had wanted to tell him as soon as possible? Still creepy, but…

Well. He’d go see if Sam was awake yet, and if so, if she knew anything. Also, in the improbable event that Bond was here for Quint, it would be significantly harder to maim, kill, or threaten him unnoticed if Sam was right there…

~*~

Sleep had done him good, as it usually did. It gave pain time to settle down to a dull, stubborn ache - trading agony in for stiffness. As always, 007 came awake slowly, awareness slipping through his muscles and quietly reminding him of the breaks in his body and the sand under him.

And an air mattress flush against his left shoulder.

Maybe the strain of yesterday was indeed making him slow, because it took another two seconds of complete stillness for Bond to remember the finer details of where he was: sleeping next to a hacker who had reportedly broken right into MI6 and laid waste to her files. His exact reasoning from the night before felt a bit shoddy - regarding precisely why he was sleeping here - but the fact remained that he was. Eyes slipping open, James quietly went through an easy plan for leaving the area without the scrawny hacker ever knowing.

Only to find that he was already alone.

The fact that Q had slipped away without waking the agent was alarming, and James brought a hand to his head and seriously considered the impact he’d taken to his skull. He never slept deeply, instead waking to the slightest movement, touch, or noise - and there was no way that Q had left an air mattress silently. The inflatable nightmares were not built for silent motion. Bond sat up, hissing as his ribs protested, and curled his arm around his middle as pain swamped him for a moment and the utter failure of his usually acute senses sunk in.

Fortunately, they didn't fail him a moment later: he heard the rustle behind him of someone waking and then approaching. It had to be one of the teens, and as much as young people could be annoying, Bond realized that being startled by one and subsequently attacking them would probably make him feel a little bit guilty…

It was one of the girls. The same one that had stood up to him the day before, in fact. She was looking from him to the empty mattress with a confused expression on her face. “So…” she started, obviously unsure of how to go on.

His back was partially to her, putting him in profile with his injured right side more towards her, but for once, Bond didn't acutely feel the vulnerability. He took in a breath and let it out in a low sigh. He stubbornly refused to admit that that hurt. It was only then that he realized that he was possibly as flustered as she was, although probably for different reasons. The chances that she was questioning the parameters of a kill-order were unlikely. “If you don’t use your words, this conversation isn't going to happen,” he finally decided to snark without turning his eyes to her.

It brought a smirk to her face and she tossed her shining black hair back. “So is a word, I’ll have you know.”

Bond lips twitched upwards despite his rotten mood. “I said words, plural.”

“Ass,” she said, smirking. “That’s a word as well. Anyway, did you disappear the boss or something? Magically switched places with him? Had a quantum entanglement and ended up on the wrong end? Teleportation? Did you kidnap him?”

Only the last option actually made any real sense to James, and he wasn't going to admit to the possibility of that, for obvious reasons. It was hard enough to remain as harmless as he was so far. He could also hear some of the other teens rustling about, and decided that if he stalled too much longer he’d be inundated with kids. “No to all of the above,” he decided on, keeping his answers curt to make it clear that he didn't really want company, “Your overlord disappeared all on his own.” As to why Bond was sleeping next to his bed…

“Moo… Boring,” she said, laughing. “Anyway, how come you’re sleeping here? Beside the empty mattress, I might add?”

“Must have sleepwalked,” Bond lied blithely, not even putting that much effort into it. He pushed himself belatedly to his feet, feeling that it was past time he escaped this situation. He growled slightly as his muscles cramped, and decided that he should have just shoved Q off the mattress and taken it for himself instead of sleeping exhausted on the sand. Annoyingly, the girl didn't seem unduly intimidated by his increased height once Bond was on his feet again.

“Uhuh…” She gave him a skeptical look. “Anyway, Hasan is putting together something breakfasty from what we had with us on the plane… Since the boss isn't here, I guess you can join us?”

Bond blinked slowly, wondering for a moment if he was still asleep. Instinct took over, however, and he put on a polite smile - the kind he could ramp up to charm birds out of nests if necessary. Right now, it just serve to make him look less like a trained killer. “Lead on,” he dipped his head, for once remembering to use his uninjured left hand to gesture mildly. The idea of joining a pack of teenagers for breakfast sounded like a sketchy endeavor, but two more heads had already popped up and were staring at him, so escape was probably futile anyway. Besides... food was more tempting than even a good painkiller right now.

It turned out the teens had found some sandwiches in their bags. They would've looked ready for the trash under any other circumstances, but right now anything remotely edible was fair game. One of the boys gestured for him to come and sit. “Where’s the boss?” he asked, looking up at the girl who’d just let herself fall down in the sand and grabbed one of the sandwiches.

Before the girl could answer and say something about Bond teleporting/kidnapping/whatever she’d thought he’d done, Bond opened his mouth and answered, “I kicked him out of bed early. Skinny bugger snores.” Probably not his best answer, but he’d already thrown logic and common sense to by the wayside when he’d started openly wearing his gun around.

Four death-glares were suddenly leveled at him with pinpoint accuracy. If looks could kill…

“Did you want food, or would you rather go hungry?” the girl from before asked.

Bond flashed her a grin, and if it was a little bit more ‘serial killer’ than before, it was only because he was hungry. “Testy lot, aren't you?” was his reply, said without losing his smile, although perhaps it took on a challenging edge even as he sat down. They had a choice now: completely move their camp and food away from him, or try and move him. Both would be incredibly difficult. Bond hadn't had this much fun in ages...

“I’ll take that as a no,” the same girl said, smirking. Then she proceeded to take another sandwich and happily munch on it. With a lot of emphases. And noises of enjoyment.

The other teens, obviously taking their cues from her, suddenly dialed up the theatrics while they ate. One of the boys even went as far as saying ‘Yummy!’ every once in a while.

Bond admitted to himself, grudgingly, that maybe his plan hadn't been a good one. Even outnumbered as he was, he could probably forcibly take food from them, but even that thought made him feel too much like a monster for comfort. So instead he sat, eyes narrowed and body still, trying to think of a way to react to this that didn't make him look either childish or downright violent. To anyone watching, it would have been quite a strange affair: a little squadron of teens munching with evident enjoyment on nearly-spoiled food while a man sat by and watched with a lethal sort of stillness. This went on for nearly ten minutes.

Then Bond suddenly stood up.

Everyone jumped, perhaps wondering if the joke had gone too far. The teens immediately dropped the theatrics, feeling the threat instinctively. None of them made to offer Bond the food though, and when the first shock was passed, their gazes took on different levels of defiance.

Bond, though, didn't appear to be paying them anymore mind - nor was he stomping off in a huff. Instead, he began strolling smoothly towards the pile of unclaimed luggage set out in the sand, the same pile that Q had given the teens strict orders to ignore until told otherwise. That, more than anything, had the teens paying attention.

For a moment, there was a silent discussion between them. Then one of the boys jumped up. The rest followed, sandwiches still in hand. Teenagers that they were, leaving food did not seem to be an option. “Boss said not to touch that…” the first boy said, sounding somewhere between unsure and accusing.

It was as if Bond didn't have ears; he just kept walking. In fact, he dropped down onto his haunches and within seconds was pawing through the bags, looking through them with an efficiency that was probably unnatural - not a lot of people had ever been told to break into a person’s room and find a tiny flash-drive in under two minutes, before their target got back.

“Oi!” the boy had actually walked up and grabbed Bond’s shoulder, showing more guts than many a grown man. “Boss told us not to touch that! It’s other people’s stuff and they might not appreciate us digging around in it! He said we’d look at it later!”

It was reflex. An admittedly misplaced reflex, but sometimes that was all that kept an agent alive in a tight spot. Bond reached up with his left hand and caught the boy’s wrist, arching his back and pulling so that the boy neatly flipped right over him in a pinwheel of gangly arms and legs. His surprised yelp was matched only by Bond’s pained snarl as his ribs protested, but then the kid was landing flat on his back on the piles of luggage. “Maybe not the best idea to do that when I have cracked ribs,” Bond murmured with a grimace while the kid stared up at him, now from upside down and with a priceless look of surprise on his young face. The agent didn't apologize, but he did appreciate the new silence. “Budge over.” The kid had landed on what he was looking for.

Shock gave way to embarrassment, but at least the boy rolled out of the way before Bond pushed him, and then Bond was finding some cord. Shoelaces might have worked, but this was longer and far more promising. A moment later, he was standing again, and walking off towards the treeline before he could be encircled by flustered, irked teenagers. The one that he’d flipped over his shoulder was now glaring from a safe distance, but none the worse for wear. Bond actually felt rather proud that he’d startled Q’s little group of minions enough to hush them for a moment or two.

Of course, with teenagers, silence never lasted long.

“Okay, spill,” the same girl that had approached Bond that morning came closer again, nose held high with an imperious look, “What’s the wire for?”

Okay, naming them all Thing 1, 2, 3, and so on in his head wasn't going to work. Ignoring the question entirely, Bond finally gave her his attention to instead ask, “What’s your name?”

Her eyes narrowed, chocolate brown behind a screen of ink-dark lashes. “Tara. What do you care?”

“It’s either learn your names,” Bond shrugged, unwinding the wire as he walked, “or just calling you all Quint’s minions. Considering how smarmy you’re being, I’m tempted to just go with that option.” He could almost hear their little tempers sizzling, and suddenly 007 wondered why he hadn't started antagonizing young people years ago. Besides, if they were going to snark at him and deny him food, he was going to retaliate. If Silva snarked and denied him food, he’s shoot the man’s kneecaps. If these kids did it... he’d just call them names and be generally mouthy. Besides, if they were going to bug him continually about where Quint was, they deserved to be called his minions.

They’d reached the treeline now, and Bond wasn't slowing. “Stay behind if you want. We’re going a ways,” he grunted, not caring if he went alone.

A challenge in front of teens was like a bone in front of a dog - they weren't going to just let it be. No less than three of them asked where they were going (at the same time), and the boy he’d flipped actually had the audacity to come up and tug at his sleeve again, although this time the kid jumped back immediately out of reach, a sneaky glint to his eyes. The truth was, there weren't really going anywhere - they just needed to get far enough into the trees for Bond to set a snare or two. He was pretty sure that Sam would skin him alive for taking a group of kids with him into the jungle, and it probably looked pretty suspicious (one armed man, four teenagers) to anyone.

However, the task of teaching the youth how to make snares turned out to be surprisingly entertaining. Of course, they didn't catch anything for hours (the teenagers made enough noise to probably be heard back on the beach), and it was awkward when one of them blithely asked if snares like this could catch people. Bond had to pretend to think about it, and not admit to the fact that he’d often caught people this way - and he usually didn't just catch an unsuspecting ankle. Q’s squad of teenagers didn't need to know about how to garrote a person, and they weren't quite good enough yet to even adequately trip each other with the wires, although goodness knew they tried.

Ultimately, things worked out for everyone, in Bond’s point of view: the teenagers learned a survival skill for trapping small and unsuspecting game, and Bond stole half of Tara’s sandwich when she was absorbed in setting a snare for Hasan. When the snare worked and nearly tugged Hasan right off his feet, Tara was so elated that she never noticed as Bond made quick work of his snatched breakfast.

With his little task - getting breakfast - completed, albeit in a very roundabout fashion, Bond eventually headed back. By some minor miracle, the teenagers all came back as well, so no one got lost in the woods and the chances of Bond being punished decreased significantly. Tara seemed to be frowning, so maybe some part of her thoughts were wandering to where the rest of her sandwich had gone. Bond had left absolutely no evidence on her person, however, and Tara obviously didn't know that she was playing against an MI6 spy.

The day was already underway by the time they got back, and James stoically ignored the shaming stares they got. At first, the teens hunched their shoulders a bit, feeling either guilty or defiant, but when they saw Quint standing and talking with Sam a ways away, they perked up instantly and dashed over like a flock of gangly birds. Bond prepared to make a quick getaway in the other direction, but then winced as Sam’s keen dark eyes immediately whipped his way. Damn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Bond, he is _so_ screwed. Or is he? You'll have to wait for Monday to find out, I'm afraid.
> 
> So are you all as in love with the minions as we are yet? Will Bond ever admit to liking them out loud? Will Sam be crowned queen of the island any time soon? How in the world will Q and Bond work around their mutual distrust and confusion (not to mention lack of proper communication)? And most importantly, will Bond sleepwalk again?
> 
> And on an entirely different note, we're writing on a different story right now. How do you feel about Sam appearing there, too?


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Q sends everyone on their way, Bond and the minions get overprotective and Silva is, once again, creepy.

“And where in the seven hells have you five been?” Sam asked, her voice betraying her displeasure.

The teens stopped in their tracks and their shoulders hunched up once more, gazes flying to their feet.

“We…” Ishya gave James a sideways look, than looked down again, trying to come up with an excuse.

“He taught us how to hunt for food!” Tara, never one to keep quiet long in the face of authority, looked up, defiant gaze back in place. It was rather hilarious that James (now reluctantly walking up to them, too) was wearing the same face.

Sam seemed wholly unimpressed. “And none of you thought to tell us?” she was openly glaring at James now. Quint, standing a little behind her, seemed torn between concern for the teens and backing up her glare at Bond.

The agent’s pale blue eyes flicked over to him, but apparently Bond had decided that Sam was too dangerous to ignore right now, and immediately turned his eyes back to her. Then, rather stubbornly, he shifted his weight like someone settling in for the long haul, and stayed as silent as the teenagers.

“Really? That’s your best comeback? I’m disappointed.” Sam raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms, obviously quite secure in the fact that she could outlast him by a mile. “From those four, I can understand it, but your should know better, Bond. You’re injured and took four teenagers into an unfamiliar jungle with no backup and without telling anyone where you were going! You endangered yourself and them without a second thought!” She ignored the teen’s protest completely, still glaring daggers at Bond instead. “It’s irresponsible, if not bloody idiotic! And as for you four, he might be twice your age, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have to think before doing whatever the hell he tells you to! You were given brains, use them!”

Quint had been a silent presence at her back for the whole lecture, arms crossed and staring at the five of them. As the lecture went on, he lost his glare though, and frowned. He turned his stare at Bond, and his gaze had softened into something that wasn’t quite anger. Instead, it was disappointment.. Even when Sam seemed to run out of steam a little, his gaze never lost it’s intensity as he stared Bond down.

It was probably the first time that Q had ever really paid close attention to Bond, now that the agent came to think of it. Up until now, their interactions had been sparse at best, and Bond was well aware that he would be rather intimidating to the smaller man. Now, though, he found his brows lowering when faced with this steady, calm look, and he found himself tuning the doctor out. It was liked being talked down, but without words.

“We needed to,” he finally said, without warning breaking his silence. Sam stopped mid-sentence at the interruption, one eyebrow lifting even if her glare didn’t diminish. Bond’s attention was still turned towards Q as he tried to work the man out, pushing him around in his head like a puzzle that he couldn’t quite get a handle on. He seemed to give his explanation purely to the bespectacled man. “The food supplies won’t last forever, and I’ve known how to set snares since I was a boy.” For once, that was the truth. Sometimes it was rather fun not to constantly lie. “We went over the territory that Silva and I covered yesterday, so it wasn’t exactly unfamiliar.” That...was a tiny bit of a lie. They’d gone off that path, but Bond was still fairly certain that this island wasn’t packed with lions and tigers and bears, per se. For all that he’d been a pretty negligent caretaker, he’d keep his eyes peeled, and his sense for danger was higher than the average person’s. Pity he couldn’t exactly explain that last part…

“It still doesn’t give you the right to go off the way you did!” Sam yelled, seeming to get more angry for his excuses. “You-”

As his attention was fully dragged from Q, James finally felt his temper flaring. Whatever calmness and stability had been in the hacker’s face had matched James’s for a second, but the agent lost his grip on it as he now faced the irate doctor. A glare settled over his features and frosted over his eyes, but the most surprising part was that he took an involuntary step in front of the gaggle of teenagers behind him. Before he could yell something, however, he unconsciously tensed both fists...and was instantly reminded that he wasn’t at the top of his game. Pain ripped up his right arm, turning his glower into a hiss of pain, breaking the atmosphere.

Sam had fallen silent at his sudden movement, and now there was something very vindictive in the glare she sent him. She took a deep breath and it looked like she was about to go on right where she’d left off. In that moment though, Quint put a steady hand on her shoulder.

“Sam…” there was something really tense, almost pained in his voice. Then he turned back to the five in front of him. After a long moment of silence in which he seemed to steel himself, his eyes suddenly went sharp and focussed. “Suffice to say, we were very worried when you five just decided to disappear like that. While I agree we can’t go much longer without more food, tell someone next time?” It was the plaintive note on the end of that sentence that seemed to hammer the stake home in all their hearts and break the tension. The teens, who’d tensed up and seemed ready to defend Bond and their own choices at a moment notice, sagged. Raman was the first to move towards Quint and Sam, but the other three fell over their feet to follow him, making their apologies in rushed tones. Sam, in the meanwhile, looked between the six of them with a bemused look on her face.

Bond, however, remained fixed where he was. He was no doubt still in pain, but it was barely visible - he was hiding it with the skills of a magician (now you see it - now you don’t) - but instead of moving forward to apologize and gain forgiveness, he turned and walked away. Sam flinched, stung even as her own emotions warred across her face. She, too, was still angry, but her eyes were following the line of Bond’s back - his cracked ribs - and his powerful arms, one battered. He should have asked for something for the pain by now, but instead slipped away into the distance, his posture so foreboding that no one approached him.

As he disappeared out of sight, she seemed to collapse in on herself. She took a deep breath though, and when she turned back to Quint and the kids, she looked no less the disapproving doctor than she had earlier. “Well then, at least tell me you guys caught something?”

The teens looked at her, shame-faced. Then Tara grinned and pointed at Raman. “I caught him? I’ll bet he’s really tasty!”

Ishya giggled at that, and soon the rest of them followed. Even Sam and Quint gave in and laughed. “I think we’ll leave the cannibalism as a last resort, dear… Not that desperate yet,” Sam said, laughing.

Tara shrugged, putting on her best disappointed face. “And here I was looking forward to it!”

~*~

“Well then, if you would all kindly settle the hell down, that’d be much appreciated!” Sam stood and let her stern gaze slide over the assorted group. Quint, beside her, took another moment to admire her. He was a head taller than she was, but still the petite woman managed to get everyone to quiet down in moments. With the help of the teens, they’d gathered most of the passengers on a small patch of beach. Most of them were seated in the sand, forming a crooked circle around her and Quint. He noticed with a sting of dismay that Bond wasn’t there… But Silva was.

“Right, since it looks like we’re stuck with each other, we figured we should at least make an effort to all meet each other properly and maybe make a plan of action. I propose that we go around the circle. Please introduce yourself and tell us what you think we all need to know about you. Both in terms of triggers and things like medical conditions, and in terms of skills that could possibly be useful to all of us here,” she said, looking around the circle. “I’ll start. My name is Samantha Dhala. You can all call me Sam. I’m a doctor and work with the emergency services, normally. I don’t think there are any triggers you should be aware of where I’m concerned. I think I’ve met most of you by now, but if not, nice to meet you. Quint?”

“Right,” Quint was pulled from his thoughts and took a moment to put them in order. “I’m Quint Locke. I’m in IT, so I honestly don’t know how much use I’ll be to any of you, although I’m known to brew a pretty decent cup of earl grey, so if anyone has milk and tea, there is that.” He looked around the circle, giving a little uncomfortable shrug. “No triggers, now that we’ve got two feet on the ground. I really hope that when they come save us, they do it by boat, though…” He closed off with a small, self deprecating smile and looked to Ishya, who was sitting by his feet.

The girl smiled shily, now that everyone’s attention was on her. “Hi, I’m Ishya. I’m not too sure how I can help out, but we learned to set snares this morning, so I can do that now!”

The other teens laughed. “Hasan,” the boy next to her said, with a small wave at everyone. “I also learned to set snares this morning, and I’m a pretty decent swimmer. I used to build huts all the time, and I’m going to be an architect when I get older, so I was thinking maybe I could do something with that?” he said, his over-confident voice only barely hiding the insecurity underneath. When he saw the approving looks on Sam’s and Quint’s faces though, he seemed to perk up.

“My name is Raman,” the boy next to him piped up, “I’m told I’m no good at anything but getting in trouble, but I can make fire with a firestone and some dry leaves! Oh and I can do the snare thing as well!”

“And I’m Tara. I’m even better at getting in trouble than Raman is, but I’m also pretty decent at getting out of it, so.” She stared defiantly at the rest of the circle, as if daring them to say anything about it. “Anyway, me too to the snares and the swimming. I don’t know about anything else, but I usually find something to do?”

As they went further along the circle, Quint tried very hard - and failed miserably - to remember everyone’s names. He did find out that they had more people with useful skills than he might’ve hoped. A lady in the back of her fifties piped up that she knew a thing or two about which plants were edible and which weren’t. Several people said they were handy at cooking. One of them managed to win Raman’s heart (and maybe Quint’s, too, if he was perfectly honest) by saying that she was glad he was there to light the fires for them. Others had some experience building and one guy even knew how to built boats. Others, like Quint himself, confessed to not having any particular survival skills, but declared themselves willing to do whatever was necessary.

When they got to Silva, Quint found himself holding his breath. He couldn’t quite explain why, but the man gave him the creeps. He’d done nothing to warrant it, and Quint hated himself a little for how much he disliked the guy, but he just couldn’t seem to help himself.

Silva had been drifting around at the back of the group like smoke at the edge of a nightmare, snagging at the corner of everyone’s eye without really coming into focus. Now, however, as everyone turned to him, the man put on a placid smile and spread his hands benevolently. “Ah, it would seem that it’s my turn!” he filled the silence after a careful pause, unintimidated by so many eyes on him. In fact, he seemed to swell like an actor in his element on a stage, and he even went so far as to place a congenial hand on the shoulder of the older woman next to him. It was odd how a man could inspire so much unease in some people and the opposite in others, because the woman smiled - timidly at first, and then more easily as Silva gave her a friendly look and a broad smirk of his own. Sam’s eyes were narrowed slightly, as if she was wary of believing the act, but before she could speak up to hurry him along, Silva continued speaking graciously, “No particular skills to report, I’m afraid. Sorry, doctor.”

“Triggers?” she asked, keeping her voice civil but clearly picking up on whatever warning bells Quint and Bond had been hearing.

“I have a weakness for a pretty face,” was all he said, as if he were joking, but his eyes were narrowed with a hungry wolf’s dark cheer. While a few other people tittered and chuckle at his impromptu humor, Silva’s gaze slid smoothly to Quint, whereupon his grin broadened to finally show his teeth in a brief flash.

Quint shuddered. The idea of… Urgh. Next to him, he could feel Sam shifting as if to put herself between Quint and Silva and for once, he was grateful.

After that, it didn’t take long for the last people to introduce themselves and Sam took over again. “So, the way we see it, there are several things that need doing. We are going to need food and water if we’re going to survive out here for more than a few days. A creek was found yesterday,” - Quint noticed that she didn’t mention who’d found it and suppressed the very rude impulse to smirk - “And we are going to need a group of people who are willing to take anything water resistant we have and get water here. Besides this, maybe Mrs. Ainsel could lead a group of people into the jungle to find edible plants?” It took Quint a moment to identify Mrs. Ainsel as the older lady who knew about plants, but the lady in question nodded resolutely. “I’ll stay here to care for the injured. I’d appreciate some help if any of you have experience tending to injured people or are willing to learn. The last group…”

Here her eyes met Quint’s for a moment, as if seeking his support or agreement. He nodded at her, grim-faced. It would not be a pleasant task.

Sam’s voice lowered and her face took on a sad look, but she sounded clinical, one-hundred percent the doctor. “As most of you are aware, not everyone made it off the plane. There are a number of people who did not survive the crash. We, Quint and I, feel like we can’t in good conscience leave them there. It’s not right.” Her voice won in strength. “We might have stranded on a deserted island, ladies and gentlemen, but that does not mean we can just stop being decent people. Quint has agreed to take a group of people to the plane and bring in the dead so they may have a proper burial.”

She looked down, as if paying her respect to the dead. For a moment it was absolutely silent. Then, as if by some cue that Quint had missed, everyone started talking at the same time. Quint flinched away from the sudden level of noise, but then took a deep breath and steeled himself. His voice wasn’t loud, but the calmness in it seemed to overcome everyone, and those who didn’t quiet down got shushed by the teens. “Nobody will be required to come with me. Those who’ve gone to the plane yesterday know that it is not a pretty sight. I am sure it will be worse today. If you do not feel up for that, or if you have relatives, friends, or acquaintances there and do not feel like you could handle it, please, go with one of the other groups. They are all equally important at this point. I would like to borrow all of the air-mattresses again, though, as I have no idea how to get them to shore otherwise. We’ll meet over by the rock over there,” he pointed at a rock-formation easily the height of a large man. “in ten minutes. I propose that those who look for food follow you,” he nodded at the older lady, “and those who go out to get water gather anything that they can carry it in and gather by the large tree over there. Actually, that goes for everyone: if you have anything that they can use, give it to them? As for the people who’ll stay here, maybe you can gather by the…” he grasped for a term. Gods, he hated public speaking, “Infirmary?”

The last bit got him a smirk or two, but Quint didn’t wait to see what everyone would do. He just wanted to change and get the task done.

~*~

“No.”

“But boss-”

“I said no.” Quint felt a stab of panic at the four pleading looks that were directed at him. He was not taking the teens to bring back the dead, though. That was simply not in the realm of possibility. They had seen quite enough already, and what he’d said earlier was true: he’d seen enough detective series to know that corpses did not get better-looking with time. He paused, but they were not relenting. In their swimming trunks and bikinis, with the air mattresses held at a ready at their sides, the four of them looked like some younger, Indian version of baywatch. Which did not change his stance on the issue. He would rather not go at all than have them follow him there. For a moment he found himself wishing for Sam, or even Bond, who might be into taking stupid risks with the teens, but would surely back Quint up in this. That wasn’t fair, though, and the teens were his responsibility. He frowned a bit, trying to figure out where that thought had come from, but it rung true enough. He took a deep breath and mentally took a step back, allowing his rational mind to take over. These four were hell-bent on following him, that much was obvious. But they’d gone with Bond earlier in the day, which meant, with the proper distraction…

“Besides, the four of you are needed with the food group! You guys know where the snares are that you set up, and I’ll bet you can climb the trees none of the others can get into!” Climbing trees, now that was clever. Kids liked climbing trees.

Hasan was the first to buckle under his steady look. “Alright boss, you win,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Come on, guys, I’ll bet those old farts couldn’t get up a tree if it was thirty centimeters off the ground!”

Tara was, unexpectedly, by this point, the last to give in. She dumped her mattress in the sand and gave Quint a crooked smile. “Whatever you say, boss.”

Quint smiled at her. “They really do need you guys, you know?”

“Yeah, yeah…”

“Good luck!”

She stuck up her hand as she walked off after her friends and Quint sighed. He was definitely not made for this.

“Well done, my dear, well done indeed! No need for children on such an… unenviable expedition. Although, with the way the world works, everyone becomes acquainted with death sooner or later.”

Quint almost jumped out of his skin when Silva’s voice piped up right behind him. He did jump when he felt a hand slide over his shoulder, quickly turning towards the man and putting some distance between the two of them. It took him great effort not to tell the man that those ‘kids’, as he called them, had been of more use to everyone than all the adults combined. Huh, look at him, jumping to defend the teenagers... “Mister Silva, how can I help you?” he asked instead, edging away a little further.

“No need to be so jumpy, Quint, dear… I am, as ever, only here to help,” the man said, face splitting in a chiding smile as he took in Q’s clipped tone and unwelcoming posture, “You requested volunteers with a strong stomach to collect the dearly departed. I assume you could still use a hand?” He lifted a hand from his side as if literally offering it, head tilting as he eyed the smaller man playfully before dropping his arm again and switching topics slightly, “I must compliment you on your inspiring speech just now - remarkable! Truly the hallmark of a real leader.”

Quint stared at him, completely flabbergasted. Was this man for real? Then the realisation sunk in that Silva intended to go with him to collect the dead. Somehow, the idea made him incredibly uncomfortable. As if, by simply allowing Silva to touch them, he was somehow desecrating them - the man had shown nothing by way of grief so far, or even a normal amount of concern, but maybe he just hadn’t known anyone on the plane. Gods, Quint really was going bonkers. Try as he might though, Quint couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something profoundly uncomfortable about the idea that Silva would come with him. Gods, this was absolutely unfair of him, but… “I’d actually meant to ask you: Could you go with the group looking for water? I’m sure you know the way best, and it would not do for them to get lost…” That way, at least he wasn’t near Sam and the teens either. Quint still couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was, exactly, but he didn’t trust this man one bit.

“Ah, but I am sure mister Howards is with that group,” Silva waved him off, also adding the typical, “Quint, my dear,” that was starting to feel like a prick of steel against Q’s skin. “He will be able to lead them there just as well as I.”

Quint groaned internally. He then prayed that mister Howards, whoever that was, would forgive him for this. “But would he really be able to lead them there? You’ve found it before. I can not see him doing the same thing...”

Silva seemed to consider this, pale head cocking even as he folded his hands behind his back in a professional sort of posture that emphasized just how very big he was. “You are absolutely right, of course,” he finally surprised Quint by conceding, a regretful sort of smile touching his mouth and adding a sigh to his voice. He cast a glance back at the smaller man, “Always thinking of the good of the group! A very admirable character-trait, I must admit - I must admit further that it’s also a trait I rather lack, but I hope you’ll forgive me.” Silva moved to touch Quint again, but Quint took a step back and barely managed to avoid it. Silva seemed disgruntled for only one moment as his eyes hardened to terrifying chips of dark glass - then his oily, overly friendly smile was back, expression affable. “I will leave you to your gruesome task then, and go where I am needed. But I’m sure I’ll see you later, won’t I, Quint dear?”

“Yes… Later…” Quint wasn’t proud of how reluctant and unwelcoming his voice sounded, but he could help that as little as the sigh of relief that he let out when Silva turned around and smoothly headed towards the trees. He still looked out of place amidst them all, just as Bond did, but in different ways. Bond was out of place because he was wearing a gun that he legally shouldn’t have been allowed to have on the plane, but Silva stood out because he still looked prim and proper even after a plane-crash, and seemed largely unbothered by those events emotionally.

“So I hope I _will_ be allowed to stay?”

It was the middle-aged man who had helped Quint get everyone out of the plane the day before. It turned out his choice in swimming-trunks was as horrid as his choice in t-shirts. Quint shrugged helplessly and nodded. “They were better off in another group,” he said by way of explanation.

The man smiled indulgently. “I think everyone is better off in another group, but someone needs to do it, and if not us, then who?”

Quint didn’t know what to answer to that. There really wasn’t a good answer, and while he might’ve been able to defend sending the kids away, Silva was another matter entirely.

After an uncomfortable silence, the man laughed. “Don’t look so troubled, pal, I get it. So, do you think those ten minutes are done yet?”

Quint looked around at the small group of people gathered around him. He was glad to see that none of the people who’d left the plane puking the day before had been stupid enough to sign up for his group, and that none of them looked cheerful about the task ahead of them. In addition to the four the teens had brought with them, there were three more mattresses, including the double one that they’d also used the day before. He gave a nod. “Let’s get this over with.”

~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Except for the first scene (which, let's face it, spans two and a half pages, so I don't feel all that sorry for you) this feels like a bit of an in-between-y chapter. The next chapter should be really intense though and the one after that... Well, let's just say I can't wait to post it!
> 
> So question: How do you guys feel about adding in OCs from one story in another story? More specifically, how do you feel about adding Sam into the next story we're writing? Share your thoughts, because we're not sure one way or another.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bond does not sulk, Q does not feel, and both of them are far too good at lying themselves. Also, the plot thickens...

M would have called it sulking, but she would have let him do it, knowing that the alternative to a 00-agent sulking was a 00-agent causing mass chaos as his or her temper frayed. Bond’s temper was dangerously flammable right now, and he sat on a small, rocky outcropping between ocean and trees while he tried to keep any sparks from igniting those hot coals of temper in his gut.

Why? Why did this have to be so complicated? Perhaps he was being unreasonable, but he’d hoped this mission would be fairly cut-and-dried - after all, MI6 hadn’t been faced with such an obvious, blatant threat in remembered history. Q should have been one of those targets that Bond happily shot between the eyes, bidding good riddance to a man who’d put all of his comrades in danger.

But the longer this little dance went on, the less sure 007 was of the steps.

Q was harmless physically. Bond was more or less sure of that by this point, having seen the hacker nearly naked and as unathletic as a fluffy housecat. The dark-haired young man also possessed an unassuming gift for leadership. The fact that he seemed unaware of - or even afraid of - this ability endeared him all the more to Bond, who’d lived a large portion of his life under the command of people who wore command like fitted armor. It was nice to associate with someone with a soft touch instead. James reflected on the stubborn calmness that had rolled of Q in waves, settling 007 down even as it leached Q’s disapproval into him. That levelness had been worth the small sting of the smaller man’s disappointment.

Bond’s anger at the shouting match with Sam was fading, even if he was still vexed enough to remain where he was, detached from the group. Being alone had never bothered him. The trees shadowed him from behind, laying dappled shadows over him like ethereal camouflage, and the crashing waves protected him from the front - the type of spot that appealed to a man who naturally thought in terms of life or death. Whenever he tried to simplify his mission to those terms - to simplify Q to those terms - his thoughts stumbled, however.

Q had to die.

Q had saved his life.

Q was a shy man named Quint Locke who knew the secret for dealing with teenagers even if he didn’t know it, who could give orders like a Rottweiler dog when he was really more like some breed of scrawny but smart mutt, and who probably didn’t deserve Bond nearly going postal on him and Sam and then disappearing.

With a sigh that sent a spark of hot pain through the curve of his ribs, Bond got to his feet, deciding that even if he stayed mad at Sam for a few more days, he should go back to Q and attempt to act something other than childish. Q may have broken into MI6’s computers, but he hadn’t yelled at James, after all. As he made the long trip back to the others, the agent still walked slowly and with a shoulder to the shadows. He still needed time to mull over the puzzle that was Quint Locke.

~*~

Quint had been right: The scene inside the airplane was more horrid than it had been the day before. At least it seemed that the low tide had left the plane dry. Although the air was still colder than the air outside, it had warmed up significantly since the day before. Not only that, but the smell of blood and vomit and other things he did not want to think about was enough to almost drive him to vomiting as well. The urge to flee was almost all encompassing, but he held himself together by sheer force of will. He might not know them, but these people deserved a better end than this.

He forced himself to look at their faces. Young, old, nobody had been spared. In a sense, it was almost easier to look at them like this: People rather than corpses, ripped apart and covered in blood and grime. In many other ways, it was infinitely harder. It just seemed so... so senseless for them to die like this. Like some impossible hand had rolled the dice and put them at the wrong end of the plane, thereby deciding that they should die while the rest of them got to live. This, Quint mused idly, was why he could not believe in a god.

He’d moved further into the plane when there was a sudden shriek. “Isa!” A man forced his way past the others and ran towards the body of a young girl, fourteen at most. He started uselessly pulling at her body, as if trying to get her out. Rigor mortis must’ve set in, the analytical part of his mind informed him, because she wasn’t moving an inch. She was also still strapped in.

As in a dream, he watched as the man desperately tried to get the girl free, finally thought to loosen her seatbelt, and then pulled her out of her seat, only to sink down in the aisle, cradling her stiff body in his arms and crying. Nobody moved. Nobody interfered.

It seemed like an eternity before Quint could take another breath and get his mind to start working again. He made to go to the man, began to call out his name only to realise he’d already forgotten.

Luckily, as he’d come to his senses, so had others, and someone else made their way past Quint and to the man and the girl.

“Eric…” It was the man in the horrid swimming-trunks. Quint really had to start learning everyone’s name, or he’d end up calling them things like that to their faces - ‘Hey, Horrid Fashion-sense, come here for a moment!’ The thought was so odd, so out of place, that he almost broke out in giggles, the sort that were too hysterical to be anywhere near sane. He didn’t. Just stood and stared as Horrid Fashion-sense started rubbing the other man’s back.

“You know her?” he asked, and at first the man didn’t seem to register it, but after a while - how long, Quint couldn’t say - he nodded.

“She-” he started, hiccuped, squeezed his eyes closed and tried again, “She’s my little girl… My Isa… She- She shouldn’t even have been here! I shouldn’t have let her be here! I’m a horrible father! But she was so excited about it! She wanted-” he hiccuped again, “Wanted to be all grown up! Wanted to take the plane on her own! Said she didn’t need me to hold her hand like a-a big baby! And I let her! Why did I let her? I’m such a horrible dad!”

Quint listened in horror as the man, Eric, clung to his daughter, to Isa. That was just- Losing a child like that- It took him a long time to compose himself this time, to lock his feelings away and close himself off to the desperate sobs or the sound of Horrid Fashion-sense trying to calm him down. Instead, he looked at the others. It seemed like they were equally frozen. He swallowed and gestured for them to come along.

Quietly, they stepped around the two men on the floor and started the horrid task that was ahead of them.

One by one, they would unbuckle a passenger - corpse, body, person, victim… Quint had trouble finding the right word, even in his own head - and two people would lift up the body and carry it out unto the wing as best as they could. It was gruesome work, and incredibly heavy. Nobody talked. The only sound the soft sobs from where Eric still cradled his baby-girl, now resting against the side of some seats and seemingly completely unaware of what was going on around him.

There were twenty-two bodies, in total, including Isa’s, and when all of them were lying on the wing, close together so there was enough space, Quint was about ready to collapse. They were far from done yet, though. They still needed to get everybody back to land. And… Damn it. He’d almost forgotten.

“The pilot and co-pilot, we need to get them out as well.” His voice croaked when he spoke, as if he hadn’t spoken for a very long time.

The others nodded and when he went back in, so did they. They wrenched open the door to the cockpit and he started undoing the strap on the pilot’s seat. There was a surprising lack of blood here. As a matter of fact, there was nothing to indicate just why these men were dead. Quint observed this, but was not sure what to make of it. For a moment, he went back to his frantic thoughts just before the crash. The power had cut out. But the only way to do that was if the generator and all three back-up generators went out. The only real way for that to happen was… Then he saw it. A gun by the co-pilot’s feet.

Quint made his way around the chairs as best as he could. From his angle, the blood was much more visible. Most of it had soaked into the chairs. The gunshot that had taken out the pilot was in his right side, less visible because his arm had fallen over it. There was no visible gun-shot on the co-pilot, but he could see the blood running down from behind his head.

Quint brought his hands up to rub his face, realised there was blood on them, and brought them back down.

“It was the co-pilot,” his voice still sounded hoarse, but it also sounded… dead. “He must’ve sabotaged the plane, shot the pilot, then himself. How…” How did you do something like this? How did none of them hear the shots? How did you try to kill a plane full of people? How…? He felt nauseous.

“Let’s leave him here to rot. If he did this, he deserves to rot.”

Quint shook his head. “No. We take them both. Let’s go.”

Some looked ready to protest, but in the end, nobody did. Quint himself ducked under the bank of monitors and flight controls and grabbed the gun. He looked at it for a long moment. Then he walked outside, stretched his arm back, and flung it as far into the ocean as he possibly could. There was no way he was leaving another gun out for anyone to take. One gun was quite enough.

“What are you doing?” They had come out just fast enough to see the gun flying off into the distance and plunk in the water. “We could’ve used that!”

“That gun has done enough damage, don’t you think?” Quint asked, and mechanically began lifting the body closest to him and dragging it to one of the mattresses. Behind him, there were more protests, but he barely heard it. They did not need anyone else with a gun around.

Someone came over and dragged one of the mattresses back into the sea, jumping after it. Quint rolled the body off the wing and it dropped onto the mattress with a dull thud. He then walked back to the plane to grab the next body. Thankfully, everyone else followed suit.

They managed to get all the bodies to the beach in two swims. The hardest part was getting Eric to let go of his daughter only long enough to get her on a mattress. He swam the whole way holding on to her hand. It made Quint feel like he was choking.

They decided to land a little further down the beach, away from where the living had made their camp, and laid down the bodies in the sand, making sure their eyes were closed and their positions as close to peaceful as they could make it. They had nothing to cover the bodies with. They didn’t even know most of their names. But it was they best they could do for the moment.

When they were finally done, the group looked at each other a long moment, then dispersed. Most of them walked in the direction of the camp, feet heavy as they dragged them through the sand. Eric stayed by his daughter’s side, and Horrid Fashion-sense stayed with him. Quint looked at them for a long while, wondering if he should stay, then made his way further down the beach instead.

The thought of facing someone, anyone, was pure torture at this point. He walked a while, but bone tired as he was, he did not get far. Eventually, he simply allowed his legs to buckle and let himself sink into the sand.

~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry this is late. I had a migrain yesterday and completely forgot to upload or sign in Truth so she could do it. Well, at least it means that you guys will have less of a wait until the next chapter on Monday, right? *hums* Always look on the bright side of life...
> 
> What did you think of this chapter? What are your theories on what happened? Are you looking forward to reading the next chapter as much as we do to posting it?


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Q needs to start using his words, Bond thinks tossing people in the ocean is a valid way of offering comfort (because what could go wrong?), Q starts feeling sorry about pixel-people's deaths and a decision is made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there is a scene in this that is incredibly vivid in both our minds, and we would love to see it drawn, but neither of us feel like we're up to the task. Besides our endless gratitude, we want to offer up a ficlet/fic in exchange to anyone who is willing to draw it for us. If it's a fandom/pairing we're both comfortable with, we'll write together. If only one of us can work with it, she'll write it. If you're interested, let us know in a comment and we'll get back to you!

This was how Bond found him, covered in dried blood, glasses still cracked and askew, sitting in the sand and staring vacantly out over the ocean which, by now, had turned to high tide and was dangerously close to lapping at Quint's knees. Under the blood and grime, patches of skin were turning bright red with the sun, but Quint didn’t seem to notice. It was probably good that no one else was around, because the way Bond blinked in sincere shock was very unbecoming to an MI6 agent.

It was then that Bond realized that, _really_ , no one was around. However Q had come to be in this condition, no one had followed him to ensure his good health. Alarms were already going off in Bond’s head, and he instinctively slowed his pace, rolling his steps so that they were silent even if the low crash of the waves didn’t swallow the sound. He couldn’t _see_ any threat, but neither could he see any signs of footsteps besides Q’s, and even those were already being washed away by the tide.

A cold but familiar shiver trailed up Bond’s spine, the caress of ghosts he’d made: he could kill Q now.

That froze him, standing as motionless as a large shadow. The sun was starting to set, throwing up a riot of reds and oranges as it started its nightly crash into the horizon, painting Q and the sand the colour of blood. Dispassionately, Bond thought that he could paint Q and the sand bloody, too, but his way was far more ugly than the sun’s was. Even if he couldn’t risk using his gun for fear of a bullet or a body being found, 007 was more than capable of using his hands. He slipped forward, coming up upon that tiredly bent back, until his eyes could move up each protruding vertebrae like stepping stones. Eyes as cold as the sand was warm, 007 visualized wrapping an arm around the gentle curve of that throat; the bruising would be minimal, and Bond was trained to suffocate a person in seconds. The trick was to cut off blood-flow to the brain, not air-flow, and the victim would be subdued almost before they had a chance to react.

It was the pain in his right forearm that brought Bond out of his careful calculating, the throb of it putting a spike through his icy calm. Looking down, Bond remembered getting that injury, and then having Quint dragging him out of the plane like a determined little terrier.

Now that that image had replaced the ones of Q, left dead in the sand, 007 found himself relaxing, and after a second more he gave up on the idea entirely - at least for now. His thoughts were too soft - M would get a kick out of Bond going soft, he thought, right after she verbally thrashed him up one wall and down the other - and his body hurt too much, reminding him that he’d probably have to make amends with Sam if he ever wanted to see pain medication again. So, instead of doing something violent and lethal, Bond padded the last few feet closer and caught Q’s arms just under the shoulder. Q jumped as if electrocuted.

“Easy, Quint, easy,” Bond murmured, resisting the urge to roll his eyes and sigh gustily, both because it would hurt his ribs and because this was all too ridiculous to explain - if there was ever a time that Q could relax and trust him, it was now, after he decided to stay his execution. “I don’t know what the bloody fuck happened, but you’re covered in blood, and about half a meter too far from the water to wash it off. Now, come on - up you go,” Bond coaxed with the same rough affection that he’d favored the teens with earlier that day. Gruff words and action came easier to a man in his profession, so he kept his tone wry and offhand, as if nothing were really out of the ordinary. He pulled upwards, at first using only his left arm before just giving up, gritting his teeth against the pain sure to come, and using both arms to haul the skinny man to his feet. Q was heavier than he looked, or maybe James was just being judgmental because his arms and ribs were screaming at him now. Still, Q was standing, swaying a bit and kept from moving anywhere by the calloused, powerful hand that stayed locked around his upper arm. Not that it stopped him trying, though even that was… Muted. Half-assed. Just a useless, almost redundant pushing at his arm. All through the ordeal, Quint never once moved his eyes away from the horizon. Although the man was always quiet, this lack of verbal protest was…unsettling.

“Into the water, come on,” the agent continued to coax with resigned, steady patience, moving the smaller man forward mostly by progressive brute force: standing directly behind him and walking forward. Quint didn’t have much of a choice in the matter.

When they reached the shore, Bond’s grip loosened enough that Quint slid into the water like a puppet with its strings cut. The sound went through him like a shockwave and for a moment the fear that the other man would go right under was overwhelming. Reflexes being what they were, he had his arms locked around Quint’s middle in a heartbeat. The snarl that ripped out of Bond’s chest went right into Quint’s ear, but the agent was still just too stubborn to let go, even as his right arm shook and it felt like he had daggers pressing in under his ribs. The swearing would have to wait until his breath was back.

For a long moment, Quint was completely still in Bond’s grip. Then, from one second to the next, he was flailing and trying to turn and get away all in the same moment. It surprised Bond enough that Quint managed to get free, and the younger man quickly stumbled backwards, eyes wide and breath coming in short gasps. A moment later he went completely still again. He sat there, at the very edge of the surf, water lapping at his hands, feet, and ass and staring at Bond, panic all too clear in his eyes.

And, of course, the best Bond could come up with as a response was a pained, “Bloody hell, Q!” He’d tried the patient and silent thing, knowing that prodding at a traumatic event was just about the most painful thing known to man, but now he was the one in pain, and his patience had been brutally short already. He curled his arm against his middle, cursing in a few languages more than he probably should let the average person know that he was fluent in. “Next time you thrash around, do it with fewer elbows!”

Quint stared up at him for a moment longer, then squeezed his eyes closed, hunching in on himself even more. That was probably a bad sign, or something Bond should pay attention to, but he had a bit more cursing left to do first, as the waves lapped at his feet. ‘ _Focus, Bond!_ ’ he commanded himself, deciding that the next time he saw Sam, he was going to search her pockets for painkillers. All of them. Bond got his head back on straight long enough to look up, seeing Q hunched there, now half-wet and still bloody, not to mention sunburnt around the edges. ‘ _Focus on that._..’ James gave his head a shake - knowing he’d regret this - and waded back towards Q again.

It was hard not to loom, but Bond tried his best, moving slowly and carefully and circling slightly so that he wasn’t just stalking in with the sun like fire at his back. He probably just came off as deadly looking, as if he were stalking. Still, with the hacker just curled up where he was like a broken doll, there was little else for Bond to do but drop to his haunches, close enough that another flailing arm would probably clock him. The idea of that happening wasn’t exactly pleasant, but after a brief clenching of his teeth in preemptive annoyance, Bond reached out a hand. He meant, at first, to just touch Q’s shoulder again, to try and urge him back into the water - to get the blood off, shake the memory loose, or just cool down a bit after sitting in the sun for who-knew-how-long. Instead, however, he found his hand drifting - as if curiosity were a disease that flared up in him only when he was around a certain fluffy-haired hacker - so that one calloused fingertip just touched Q’s cracked glasses. Q’s head shied away slightly. “You haven’t complained once about these, have you?” the murmur fell out of his mouth, almost annoyed, then his hand withdrew. “They’re thick enough that you have to be bloody blind, and they’ve got a crack right through them.”

Quint had ducked away at the first contact, but at Bond’s words - or, possibly, at the gentle tone of those words - his frame finally seemed to relax some small measure. They sat there for what seemed like a long, long time, before Quint finally broke the silence. “It’s…” his voice was small and hoarse and trembled the slightest bit. A moment later, his eyes blinked open. “Bond?” He still sounded hoarse, but there was a measure of vulnerability and confusion to it that struck Bond. This time, the agent resisted the urge to touch, recalling a few moments of his own when the thought of physical contact that been like an electric shock - sharp and vicious to human flesh.

“Yes,” he answered, tilting his head a bare fraction to catch eyes that were more grey than hazel at the moment. “The same charming bloke who nearly got into a shouting match with a mutual doctor friend of ours. I owe you a thank you for derailing that, by the way.” It wasn’t exactly an apology, but now that Bond was changing tactics, he decided that distracting Q would be a good plan. He still wanted desperately to know what had happened, but Q honestly looked so mentally derailed himself that he feared something in that fragile frame would snap. Harder men than Q had broken when times got vicious. “Usually I’m not quite foolish enough to offend the people who are in charge of my medication and continued health.” He threw on a coaxing, mischievous smile just for effect, keeping the expression small and mild as he watched for triggers - it felt as if he were testing the ground for traps and landmines, suddenly. His hands ached to do something, but he kept them still, draped over his knees.

Quint frowned, and when he spoke it was very slowly, as if he had trouble dragging his mind back from wherever it had been. “She was… We were... Just worried.” He frowned harder.

“Not worried about me, I hope?” he joked back mildly, unused to people worrying about him in general. Where MI6 and M were concerned, there was no coddling of agents. Worrying about a dangerous man like himself with the teenagers, he could understand, even if it bit at his heart… because regardless of his profession, he found he was rather fond of the bratty youngsters. No one had outright accused him of being a threat to them, but it had been heavily implied. Shifting under this new pain - just one on top of many others by now - Bond turned to look away uncomfortably, deciding he may as well apologize now when there was a minimal audience. “I’m sorry about that,” he finally said tightly and with a sharp sigh through his nose, deciding that if he was going to act like a bad dog he may as well accept the muzzle and collar with dignity.

Quint frowned up at him, his eyes losing some of their far-away quality. “Of course we were! You just disappeared! Anything could’ve happened!”

Bond’s first reaction was a look of slight surprise at the fervent tone and when he gave his head a wondering shake, he was reminded that he possibly still had a concussion. Okay, no shaking his head… Closing his eyes and taking deep breaths, head feeling fragile as he hung it slightly, Bond soberly reminded Q, “I’m the only armed person on this little trip, remember? I’m pretty sure that if anything had happened, I would have shot the problem.”

Quint flinched at the mention of the gun, but compared to his reactions earlier, it was a pretty minor thing. He went silent for a long moment, taking the time to straighten himself out and sit up as he gathered himself. “Armed you may be, but you also have a concussion, several broken or cracked ribs, and an arm that, according to Sam, would be in a cast, had she the resources to produce one. As a matter of fact, I can personally attest you to have been unconscious for the better part of yesterday. You are hardly the most fit person on this island.” As he spoke, his tones regained their clipped uppity British quality and he moved to stand. “We are all on this island together, Bond, and dislike it as I might, our best chance of continued survival lies in our ability to work together and communicate. I can by no means lay claim to those particular skills myself, but there is no way around it.”

007 was actually a little bit stunned. He’d expected (or at least hoped) that the hacker would come alive again after a while, but he hadn’t expected him to revert from being dazed to adamantly _lecturing_. Instinctively, Bond wanted to curl his lip, because he did as well with lectures as most cats did - meaning he either ignored them or had the urge to grow cantankerous. M, Medical, Psych - all of MI6 knew that it was generally better to just skip talking sense into 007’s head and just send him back out into the field. Q, however, looked quite determined not to let this go, so 007 tried to push down his usual reaction. “Fine then. Say I concede your point. How do you think everyone else feels about you just running off on your own? Unless they just saw all of the blood on you and just decided to let you take a little stroll,” Bond returned sensibly, finally needling for the information he wanted. What the _hell_ had _happened..._?!

Quint stared at him for a long moment, confused, then looked down on himself as if he only now realised that he was covered in blood. He made as if to wash it off, then seemed to think better of it. “I’m… Not entirely sure. But after… That, I am of no particular use to anyone. I needed a moment to think, I suppose.”

That sentence perhaps didn’t sound as coherent as Q had intended, Bond supposed, but he could parse out the general meaning. Still a bit tense and wary, Bond just nodded, eyes tightening as the setting sun sparked off the waters with the obvious intent to stab into his eye-sockets. “Care to tell me how you came to be this way?” he finally got down to the point.

Quint stared at him, as if confused, then seemed to realise something. “Ah, of course. You weren’t there. We went to the plane. Brought back the dea- The ones that did not survive, so that they can have a proper burial. It was not a pleasant task.” His tone carried very little infliction, but his body-language betrayed just how much of an understatement that was.

Understanding flooded Bond’s features, seeming almost to tint his eyes a different, more sympathetic shade of blue as he made a humming noise of acceptance. That was his only comment on the matter. Action suited him better than words anyway, unless he was trying to charm or seduce a mark, neither of which was appropriate now. Instead he stood, and this time offered his good hand down to Q. “Keep talking. Explain it to me,” he commanded in an unexpectedly professional tone, eyes firm and sure.

Quint looked at him, unsure, but then took Bond’s hand and allowed himself to be pulled up. He stayed quiet for a long time this time, long enough that Bond feared he might’ve gone back into his head again. He kept his impatience in check, though, and as he backed up, this time leading Quint further into the water instead of pushing him, Quint started to speak as in a trance, never looking at Bond.“We had a meeting. Split everyone up into groups.” Another silence as they waded in until the water reached up to their hips, Bond kept near but occasionally dropped his hand away whenever it seemed that the touch was making his jittery companion nervous. “We took the air mattresses. I hope someone thought to clean them, after. I should check. Swam over to the plane. It was low tide, I suppose, as there was no more water inside. Just… Them. And the smell.” He seemed to choke up on that, gagged a little at the remembered stench.“There was a man. Eric. He shouldn’t have come. I warned them, I did, but I suppose he just wanted-”

Quint choked up and Bond took the opportunity to start sloshing water against his chest and arms, trying to get rid of the dried blood. Quint just stood there, motionless, looking off over the sea. At the plane-wreck, Bond suddenly realised, feeling a jerk of sympathy in his chest. He vividly recalled his own first kill, and how he’d acted remarkably similarly.

Only Q hadn’t killed these people.

“His daughter was there. I didn’t know what to do. Never do, in those sorts of situations. My specialty is computers, not people.” Bond’s eyes flicked up to him, ever-so-briefly. _‘Hacker_ ,’ he remembered, then pushed the thought away again. Splashing water took too much time, so Bond walked backwards a bit further, until they were both in water to their lower chests and the strong waves might have knocked Q over; instead, they broke against Bond’s back. His ribs told him this was a bad idea, but his stubborn-agent-side told them to shut it. Q was still talking. “There was this other guy, he did know. Was really good about it. The rest of us just stood by uselessly.”Q blinked, slowly, and Bond took the opportunity to move around to his back. He circled around him, carefully and slowly, and when Q stumbled at that first wave that hit him, Bond’s hand were already braced against his shoulder blades. Quint only flinched the slightest bit when the cold water submerged him further, crashing over his heated skin, mind far away.

“We took all the people and brought them out of there. Then we went to the cockpit. I’d been there the day before - yesterday - but I didn’t see. How didn’t I see? It was the co-pilot, I think. Must’ve been. They wanted to leave him, but I said no. Don’t know why I did that. He tried to kill us all. But… I tossed the gun. They didn’t like that. Suppose I shouldn’t have… We could’ve used it to hunt, maybe. But I tossed it. It’s gone now.”

Quint’s tone didn’t betray any of the confusion or urgency that his words implied. He just kept talking, recounting the events, monotone and with very little infliction. Even his face was blank as he kept staring at the black shape of the airplane in the distance. It took a bit for Bond to piece it together. He was fairly sure that Q was telling him that the co-pilot had sabotaged them and died as well, and it took all of Bond’s self-control not to spin Q around forcefully and demand him to explain in more detail. As it was, one of his hands clenched, hardened fingers momentarily pressing hard against sun-reddened skin as the agent regained his calm.

Quint fell quiet again, still with that far-away look on his face. “Then we took them here. Laid them out. We didn’t have anything to cover them. I thought maybe we could’ve taken blankets, but we need the blankets. And then I came here. Just left them there. Couldn’t really bear the thought of seeing everyone alive after that. I suppose you’re right when you say I’m no better than you. I’m completely useless at these sorts of things. Should keep to my computers.”

The blonde man froze, all of the frustrated confusion that had driven him to wander off in the first place coalescing into one fist that smacked him right across the face. “Bloody hell…” he murmured, realizing right then that he was going to fail this mission. Exasperated with himself, the fact that he was feeling sorry for a target, Bond sighed, unable to resist the impulse to lean forward until his forehead rested tiredly against the back of Q’s skull. Most of the blood had been washed away now, but he didn’t want to move and hoped Q didn’t either - he needed a moment to process all of this.

Q just stood there, still staring in the distance through the cracked glasses that seemed such a perfect metaphor, waves crashing against his chest, allowing Bond’s weight be the opposing weight to balance out their force.

Time passed in a silent haze, the sun setting behind the black ruins that had once been their plane. Bond had regained himself somewhat, enough that he wasn’t leaning on Q like some toppled fencepost anymore, but he was still very close and watching carefully. Finally, he leaned forward to put his mouth next to Q’s ear, saying what he wished someone had taken the time to say right after his first kill: “Let. It. Go.” He was never going to tell Psych that he was comparing this to his first successful lethal mission. For that matter, he was never telling Q either, even if the world were ending.

This finally seemed to be the thing that shocked Quint out of the haze he’d been in since Bond found him. His body tensed a little, losing the complete pliability it had had. He looked over his shoulder, gaze confused but definitely more aware. “Let what go?”

Bond raised an eyebrow as if to say, ‘ _Are you kidding_?’ while he verbally clarified with perfect candidness, “You’re staring off at that plane like a martyr, when there was absolutely nothing you could have done differently. So I don’t know if you want to call it guilt or just a mood black as death, but you don’t need it.” 00-agents: the experts at tough love and gruff advice. If Q was in need of gentleness, James regretted that he had less practice in offering it.

Quint shrugged, throwing another look at the airplane, but quickly, guiltily, turning back to Bond just as fast. “I suppose you’re right. And… Thank you. I behaved rather like an idiot just now, did I not?”

“No,” Bond objected easily, realizing that he still had his hands on Q’s biceps as he stood behind him. Decisions warred: the mission wanted him to clamp down, press his advantage, but he was feeling much calmer than he had in… days, honestly. Definitely since the plane crash. He drummed his fingertips thoughtfully against Q’s wet skin, and suddenly found himself asking, with his eyes also on the distance, “Have you seen death before?”

Quint took his time, answering the question. “I have, but not like this. It was always… neat. A body lying in a casket, clean and well-dressed. But it had to be done. We still need to bury them. Maybe cremate them, if the others don’t mind. That would be more efficient.”

Still feeling thoughtful - or maybe morbid, since the two intermixed with disturbing regularity for 00-agents - Bond noted, “Most people forget that death, by nature, isn’t neat. It’s meant to be faceless, messy. I’m not saying that what happened on that plane was natural, but…” He shrugged, losing the words to describe all the ways in which he’d seen death, and how long it had taken him to realize that death’s real face was always a twisted, irredeemable thing. Deep down, though, he preferred it when people were like Q: oblivious. Well, not anymore… Something twisted in Bond’s chest like it had earlier, and he moved his head, nose brushing the damp hair at the back of Q’s skull, seeking… something. but not knowing what. Comfort? Q needed it more than he did. Answers? He wasn’t going to get any of those, he figured by this point - not without raising more questions.

“I suppose… I never thought of it like that.” Q gave him a curious look, but never moved away from his touch. “Death was just something that… happened. To other people. Or on TV. I don’t suppose I’ll ever be able to play videogames in the same way.”

Bond huffed a laugh, not realizing precisely how close he was to Q until his breath ricocheted off the back of Q’s head back into 007’s face. There was an almost comical moment as he glanced around himself - at his hands still holding the smaller man in place, at the sparse space in between them - and wondered why in the world he’d done this. He was struck with the ludicrous urge to demand how in the world Q could hack into MI6 and endanger the lives of scores of agents and yet be softhearted enough to nearly fall apart over the deaths of people he couldn’t have saved. It didn’t add up, and it was throwing Bond’s killer instinct up against his espionage instincts - one scented blood, the other scented some missing piece to a puzzle he thought he’d had all worked out. Unconsciously, the grip of his left hand tightened, although he realised what he was doing and loosened it just before it could become painful.

Then, because something about Q’s quietness calmed him, he soothed the point of pressure before releasing his grip entirely and rubbing the knuckles of his fingers up and down the back of Q’s sunburnt arm, an almost hesitant touch for all that Bond usually tended to be brash.

Quint threw a crooked smile over his shoulder, seemed like he was about to say something, but then looked back down. He found some blood left over on his chest and started scooping up the salt water and rubbing it off. “I think it’s time to head back, don’t you?” he asked, something in his tone sounding like he was genuinely interested in Bond’s opinion on that.

Instinctively, Bond wanted to say no, because this still felt like a situation he didn’t have a good handle on yet, and that was only with two variables: him and Q. Heading back to the others would complicate things immeasurably, and the agent in him wanted to keep things simple. However, short of tying Q to a tree or coming up with a believable lie as to why they couldn’t return to camp - and until his headache faded, lying was going to be hard - Bond couldn’t see any way to avoid it. He sighed, aware that his expression was probably a very childish sort of glower - the kind that Q’s minions would no doubt be proud of. Still, he answered without a definite yes or no, “If you want to stay here longer, I have no problem taking us back in the dark.”

Quint shrugged. “I’m fairly sure that even I could find my way back Bond, it is not as if following the shoreline is very hard. While I would appreciate some more time to myself, I do think we need to head back. Sam will probably go ballistic as is…” He gave a another little smirk. “Besides, tomorrow is bound to be a challenge in its own right. We can’t leave the bodies out on the beach forever, and we don’t even know who most of them are…”

At that last sentence, 007’s head tilted, eyes becoming thoughtful, though the encroaching dusk hid the expression well. At long last, he turned his body, easing back and away from the smaller man and releasing him completely. “I imagine that Sam is going to go ballistic regardless of when I get back,” he deadpanned, sighing deeply and feeling the ache radiate through his ribcage. A little smiled teased at the corner of his mouth, and he shot Q a conspiratorial look as he added cheekily, “If she makes a big enough fuss, I might even apologize.”

“How very benevolent of you, Bond,” Quint said, with another one of those crooked little smiles. “You do realise that she was only angry because she was worried, don’t you?”

“If I say yes,” Bond hedged, an unreadable look on his face as he stood a few meters away in the water, the shallower depth meaning the waves only lapped at his knees, plastering his pant-legs to his thighs, “will you say yes to my question?”

Quint gave him a suspicious look. “What question?”

Those blue eyes were serious, the fading light darkening them from pale-blue to cobalt. “Do you realize that you’ve done all you can, and even the pain of losing a loved one _does_ fade?”

Q looked at him, with the same crooked smile but a sadness to his eyes that coloured them light grey. “One can always do more. As for the pain of loss… I don’t know if fade is the word I would use. But yes, I am aware that I did what I could, for the most part. Needs must, and all that. Now, let’s go and face Sam’s wrath for worrying her. No matter what you say, I have a feeling it will get worse the longer we put it off.”

Making a face like he was tempted to just run off into the treeline and stay there - like the absolute dog that he was - Bond nonetheless turned fully around and waded back to shore. He hated that heavy feeling of leaving the water and being found by the full force of gravity again, and he swore when he realized that he’d been wearing his gun in its holster this whole time. Fortunately, he’d stayed in water just shallow enough that he hadn’t gotten it all soaked again. Still the way his priorities were slipping… “Hopefully she’s not so peeved as to withhold painkillers, because,” Bond admitted very, very grudgingly, “it would appear that I need them.”

Quint smirked. “She might do just that, seeing as you’re so hell-bent on undoing all her work. However, I’m fairly sure I can wheedle some out of her. If, of course, you promise to actually give yourself a rest.”

The response he got was a glare as if he’d practically offended the blonde-haired man, the appearance only increased by the way Bond then stuffed his hands into his pockets, posture slouching in a way that shouldn’t have looked that good with him fifty percent sopping wet. “I’m not the one who’s been swimming all day, so don’t lecture me on resting,” he said, but there wasn’t any bite to it. Sarcasm and challenge, maybe, but not bite.

“I’m not the one who was out half of yesterday, or decided on a nice hike into the jungle while injured. Twice. I will most definitely lecture you about resting.” There was actually a little laugh in Q’s voice. “Though speaking of resting… Why on earth did you end up sleeping right next to my bloody mattress this morning? It’s not as if we’re lacking for unoccupied space…”

For a second, Bond’s mind scrambled for a reply, and he once again cursed the fact that he was a little bit off his game. It was unfair, really: he was being attacked by a skinny, undersized hacker who normally wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell at outmaneuvering him, but timing was everything… and right now, Q’s timing meant that Bond really wanted nothing more than to pass out. It took a lot of effort to resist the urge to just tilt his head skyward and groan, but he did have to close his eyes for a moment as he came up with a suitable lie. Finally, after an amount of time that would have gotten him shot on a regular mission, he just gave up and went back to old habits. Bond’s gaze lifted and a smirk was plastered across his face, believably but also utterly fake, as he shrugged and replied airily, “I sleepwalk.”

Quint gave him a sceptical look, one that said that he wasn’t buying it for a moment, but could see the humour in the situation and was willing to let it go, for now at least. “Of course…”

Bond’s smile never faltered - he was pretty sure he could be three-fourths dead and still keep up a mask like this, as sad as that skill was. Most of his skills, now that he thought of it, were either unsettling or sad. Like the ability to push pain down until he began to forget how to put words together, or the ability to kill a person without blinking. Bond blinked now, idly, watching Q come the rest of the way onto the beach. It was instinct to turn, his body language urging that Q lead, because people at his back made his shoulder blades twitch. He didn’t say anything more, instead content to follow.

But he still stuck to Q like a burr as they made their way back, close enough that he trod Q’s shadow with every step.

~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, you guys did say you wanted more Bond/Q interaction... There you have it! We were really looking forward to posting this, and it's extra long because really, there is just no good place to cut it anywhere else. Let us know if you enjoyed it?
> 
> And like we said at the start: If anyone is willing to offer art of Q staring off at the plane in the sunset, and Bond behind him and holding on (possibly with his head resting between Q's shoulderblades? It's what I keep seeing anyway), it'll get you our unending gratitude and a fic for a fandom either of us feels comfortable writing in (just ask, we have a pretty broad range between us, although James/Q is of course always an option!).


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is more sleepwalking, more lectures, more creepy Silva and, oh! Food. The food is new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the amazing Jana came up with some lovely art for the last chapter and an awesome prompt! You can find the art at http://archiveofourown.org/works/2610839 and we'll get to work on that prompt! Don't forget to give her the love she deserves!

“Where the HELL have you two been?”

They stood before the woman, over a head shorter than either of them, and Quint, at least, felt every inch eight years old again, knowing he was in trouble and knowing he deserved to be there, but not liking it one bit even so.

He looked to the side fugitively, trying to see how Bond was taking this. Perhaps he shouldn't have, because the man looked like a wreck waiting to happen... Or perhaps like it had already happened. The blonde-haired man was holding it together pretty well, and likely only Q, close as he was and knowing what he did, could see just how tight the man’s jaw was or the way he held himself, not with readiness, but with stiffness. Even Sam, a trained doctor, would be having a hard time picking up on the signs as Bond simply fixed his eyes in the middle distance and sighed occasionally, as if used to lectures like this. The one time Bond had met Sam’s eyes, however, he’d flinched. Sam was just that scary when riled.

“Sam,” Quint broke in, before she really could go off. “We’re truly sorry. I realise I should have come here first as not to worry you, but after the plane… I just had to get away for a bit. Bond came to find me and…” Suck it up and take one for the team, Locke… “Well, I was a bit of a mess. Bond took care of me. Talked me down-” Dumped him in cold seawater, more like, but there were things Sam would be happier not knowing. This was one of those things. For several reasons. “After, we ended up talking and I suppose we forgot about the time. I really am sorry, Sam, I’m afraid this time the blame is on me.”

Bond had shot him a look as if wondering whether to thank him for taking on for the team, or to call him crazy the moment the other man realised what Quint was saying. Quint ignored him, looking at Sam pleadingly.

The woman huffed. “Well,” she started, but stopped, her anger well and properly derailed. “You two are absolutely hopeless, I’ll tell you that.” It might've been a bit lame in terms of a comeback, but internally Quint sighed in relief. He really didn't think he had it in him to have a back and forth with Sam right now, and he was almost certain that Bond didn't, either.

“We’re sorry Sam, we are…” He gave her a crooked smile. “And yes, quite hopeless, too.”

She couldn't seem to help answering that with a small smile of her own. “Quite. Now scram, you two. And go get something to eat.” She pointed at a blazing camp-fire further along the beach. “They found quite a bit of food, our explorers, and I’m told that it really helped to have a set of monkeys along to get to the highest bananas…”

Q gave Bond a sideways look, noting once again the tense lines of his body and the way he carried himself. He guiltily remembered not only being man-handled by the man, but also hitting him. Hard. “Just one more thing, and then we’ll get out of your hair, promise. Do you think you could spare him some pain-killers? Big oaf is too proud to admit it, but I’m pretty sure he needs some anyway…”

This time, he only had one blue eye slanted his way, a look that said James was perhaps less than impressed with Q’s exact wording, but he didn’t complain. In fact, he did nothing at all except let his shoulders relax minutely - tension easing away that had been there so permanently that it had started to look normal. When Sam turned to Bond with a raised brow, the blond-haired man fashioned a rueful sort of smile that actually reached his eyes.

Sam rolled his eyes, huffed again, made a show of putting her head in her hands, rolling her eyes again, but in the end she rooted around her trouser-pockets. “I suppose I can share some, but only if you sit on him to keep him from doing something else stupid.” She turned to Bond, eyes strict, but a small smile playing around her lips. “No unsanctioned trips into the jungle tonight or tomorrow.” Her gaze drifted over their soaked clothes. “No more swimming, either. Is that clear?”

“Crystal, ma’am,” Bond said without missing a beat, his smile getting more charming by the minute. He was very likely teasing, but it had the desired effect of making Sam smirk in return, shaking her head once again at his antics. When she held out the pills, he took them with a deft plucking motion of his fingertips, swallowing them dry without a second’s thought. Then he looked to Q, and the mischief was still there, mixed in with the charm. “Are you going to sit on me now like the good woman asked?”

“I think I’ll wait until we’re both in dry clothes and by the fire, if neither of you mind,” Quint replied in good humour. True, he hadn’t told Sam the whole truth, but he also hadn’t lied, exactly. Bond had come to find him, and had tried to take care of him, no matter the effectiveness of his methods. To Quint, it went a long way towards establishing that he was a Good Guy, really, even if he was still bloody weird. Also, confusing. Regardless, Quint was fairly sure that this was not what one did if one secretly wanted to kill someone, so he felt safe in tossing Bond a mischievous look as he walked off to find some clothes. “After that… Well, I do prefer a little more wining and dining, for the most part.”

Sam looked like she was going to burst out laughing, only the hand held to her mouth keeping guffaws in - and she made absolutely no effort to hide the amused sparkle of her eyes as she looked between the two men. As for Bond, his eyebrows had climbed up towards his short blonde hair, but the smile was still there. For the briefest of moments, in fact, it turned positively predatory. “Cheeky little shit,” was his final declaration, however, as he let Q walk off and instead stayed next to Sam. Maybe he was going to apologize after all, or at least have a brief heart-to-heart with the woman. The two had worked well together before - it would be a shame if that closeness was lost.

By the time Sam shoo-ed Bond over to join the group by the fire and eat, - bloody hell, no sense of taking care of yourselves properly, you people! - Quint had changed into jeans and a hoodie. The same hoodie, as a matter of fact, as the one he’d been wearing on the plane. The minions had gathered around their overlord, it seemed, and were happily telling him about their adventures in the jungle that day.

“-And then Tara, of course, had to go and prove him wrong, and you can just guess how that ended!” Raman said, grinning. Tara turned red and the others laughed, including Quint. Sitting there, in his hoodie, surrounded by teenagers and laughing as if the past two days hadn’t happened at all, Q looked impossibly young. Seeing Q broken down and more or less unclothed under an hour ago only reinforced the thought. Feeling a bit more stable and in control now that the painkillers had pushed his aches to a survivable haze at the back of his mind, Bond took up a seat at the far side of the group, not caring that he had no clue who the people he was sitting next to were. They cast him befuddled looks, but then noticed his gun and remembered who he was, or at least that he existed - funny how little details would jog a memory like that. Bond gave them a rather thin smile and accepted the simple soup that had been put together. It was the oddest soup Bond had ever had, but he purposefully didn’t try to identify what was in it, and it was filling. He felt himself settling down, focus shifting tiredly inward.

Across the way, a pale shadow unfolded from the darkness, coming up on Q easily. “Well, well, well, and look who’s back from his adventures,” Silva clucked his tongue and playfully moved a strand of hair across Q’s brow while standing mostly behind him.

Q whipped around, simultaneously backing away. The minions all turned simultaneous death-glares to the man as well. Q seemed to shudder a little, but his face had gone all but blank. The minions glares were all ignored by Silva, who seemed only to have eyes for the bespectacled man - in fact, with the way Silva’s canted eyes slipped and slid over Q’s face, then down his slim neck, to tensed shoulders, to shaking arms and fisted hands, it was as if he read the past few hours in his skin. The larger man smiled, a full, tightlipped grin. “And I heard you spent it with a certain blue-eyed gunman? How sweet. Care to tell me how that particular… encounter went?” He couldn’t have laid the innuendo on thicker, and his smile only broadened, lighting his eyes.

Without so much as a single word of warning, Quint got up. He didn’t even look at Silva. “I believe it’s about time to head off to bed. Sleep well, everyone.” The words were tight and clipped, and Quint didn’t meet anyone’s eyes as he stalked - not ran, never ran - away in the general direction of his sleeping spot the night before.

He would have made it scot-free if Silva’s voice hadn’t carried to him, not quite raised but somehow as loud as thunder rolling in. “Before you go - one question, Quint, dear,” Silva called, as polite as a snake’s smile. When Q didn’t even react, however, he closed his mouth - this question could wait. Silva gave a smooth nod to the still-glaring - and maybe shivering - teenagers, and then wandered off his own way.

Q’s exit and Silva’s natural aura of dangerousness had gotten everyone’s attention, meaning Bond’s eyes were already lifted and narrowed. He spared one glance between Silva - with his smug, almost triumphant grin - and Q before he found himself standing. With everyone murmuring about Quint’s swift leaving, no one paid much mind as 007 slipped away and around the group much more quietly.

“Ah, James!”

Technically, Silva had not snuck up on him - but the big man had still gotten bloody close before 007 heard heard him in the night-darkened trees. Bond came to a halt, stance hovering somewhere between ready for a fight and mildly impatient. “Need something, Silva?” he made himself ask sweetly, although he had a feeling it came across slightly acidic around the edges.

Either immune to the hidden bite or ignoring it, Silva came forward until he was visible in the shadows, but out of arm's reach. With his right arm out of commission, it would take longer for Bond to draw his gun, and it was possibly damp from walking into the sea with Q anyway. “Not really,” continued Silva conversationally, but then his eyes darkened and grew more cruel, “I suppose I was just wondering where you were going so elusively. Not after Quint, surely?”

“Where I go is my business,” 007 told him flatly, not intimidated. He was arguably as tired and sore as Q was, but training had made him harder - he had a bit more fight left in him, and suddenly he wanted to use that fight to get Silva to _back off_. “So fuck off.”

Silva chuckled, then admonished, “Manners, James, manners. As of right now - I like you - but that mouth of yours…”

When Silva just let the sentence hang, Bond felt his hackles rise quietly, so he challenged back in a tone of voice that said he was not amused, “What about it?” He splashed a grin onto his face, the kind of grin that looked good reflected off a razor-blade, for it was equally sharp. “Are you trying to say something here, Silva? Because I must admit, you’ve got the kind of vagueness I usually only see in cowards.”

That last word hit the mark, and Bond gave himself a point as Silva’s smile faltered and dropped, becoming a glare instead. “You’d know about cowards, wouldn’t you, James?” he said back with lethal softness now.

“How would I?” Bond shifted his stance, appearing cocky now. His eyes were half-hooded and his posture at ease. It was the kind of look that drove most people insane - higher-ups of MI6 included. Usually he used insolence like this on the Psych department until they threw him out, or M until she threatened to put his hide up on her wall.

It was working on Silva, too, if the little twitches in the man’s face were any indicator. “Why, Quint, of course. He’s a kind of coward, isn’t he? He can play the leader, but we know he’s only strong when in the shadow of better men. You’ve seen his kind before, haven’t you? The kind that never fight fair, or choose to cheat. Not fighters like you and me.” Silva’s grin was cold and twisted. “Blood and bone is honest, but that’s not how Quint would take down an opponent, now, is it? Think about it.”

And with that, Silva turned and disappear into the trees again.

Bond felt as if all of his muscles were tensed, wired with crackling energy that might have been adrenalin - or might actually have been fear. What was Silva going on about? Why was he stubbornly attacking Q this way? Q wasn’t even there to be hurt by the words, if Silva was just out to make the smaller man miserable. No, this was another kind of attack entirely, and Bond’s unease around Silva increased tenfold. He’d had the vague sense that Silva was more dangerous than he seemed from day one, but now there was no question that Silva had a lot more going on in him that a sick smile and sadistic kink.

Blood and bone...those, Bond understood, just like Silva said. And the first thought Bond had had when told that a hacker was threatening to expose MI6 agent dossiers?

He’d thought that that was a coward’s move.

007 turned and made a beeline for where Q would be, questions bubbling up in his mind again like acid.

Bond found Q on the same mattress he’d slept on the day before, curled in on himself, back towards the beach. Even under the blanket though, Bond could easily spot the tension that had every muscle in his body tightened. He sighed, feeling like history was repeating itself, and bloody hating it. This time, instead of just being creepy, he called out in a voice that would only carry to Q (not that anyone was back here anyway), “Quint.”

Quint seemed to duck into himself even more, before suddenly relaxing a little, as if he’d recognised Bond’s voice. After another long moment, he sat up and turned to Bond, looking incredibly weary. “Bond?”

“Last time I checked,” Bond answered, recalling belatedly that Q usually wore glasses - and was not right now. It felt strangely like he’d caught the smaller man unarmed, and 007 had to wrestle with the parameters of his mission again. However, after hearing Silva, Bond was definitely sure that something was up - worst case scenario, there was actually an additional leak in MI6 security, meaning killing Q wouldn’t solve the problem. Bond didn’t have enough information, so for now, he was doing what he could to protect the best source of information he had: Q. He could always get the information he needed and then kill Q later...although that option was becoming harder to consider the longer he looked at that tousled head with its owlishly blinking eyes.

Quint, in the meanwhile, relaxed even more, even going as far as to smile wrily. “Figured you’d pre-empt your own sleepwalking and come and stare at me when you’re actually awake to see anything?” he asked, obviously attempting a joke.

The effort startled a genuine laugh out of Bond. He’d nearly forgotten his piss-poor lie. “Actually,” he swiftly formulated a better one, “I just realized that my antisocial behavior and tendency to wear a gun has left me without other sleeping arrangements. I had considered seducing my way into the good doctor’s bed, but we both know that she’d clock me - and that was before we had that little fight over my tendency to gallivant in unknown jungles with dangerous teenagers.” Yes, the painkillers were definitely settling in enough to make lying easier. It just rolled off his tongue like a poison he was used to. Joking a bit more, he tilted his head and rolled the words around his mouth consideringly, “Or was that dangerous jungles and unknown teenagers…?”

Quint smiled, actually, honestly smiled. “I suppose I see your point,” he said, rather than pointing out the rather obvious fact that Bond had the whole beach at his disposal.

Being the charmer that he was, Bond added silkily, “It’s either I sleep here or I steal Tara’s hammock. You know I will.”

“You really do have a thing for women who will try to kill you, don’t you? It’s Ishya’s hammock, actually, but I absolutely agree with you when you say that it’s Tara who will come after you and kill you in your sleep. But fine, you can sleep here. I could even be persuaded to give up one of my blankets so you don’t have to sleep in the sand.” He gave Bond - or rather, Bond’s general direction - a self-satisfied smirk and untangled the blanket, tossing it at Bond and pulling the sheet he was left with over his lap.

Obligingly, Bond came forward, wondering what M would say if she saw him moving like a well-trained puppy when he hadn’t even really been called to heel. He plucked up the blanket with a short word of thanks, spreading it out on the ground near the air-mattress before stretching out on it. This felt much better than last time. “Quint?” he said again, once again fighting the urge to just say ‘Q’ and recalling his mission.

“Yeah?” Q’s voice was soft when he answered, and a look revealed that the hacker had curled back up, though without any of the tension he’d had before. Bond hoped he didn’t put that tension back in there, but he was starting to hate the taste of lies.

“Do you want to know why I’m really seeking you out when I should be bloody sleeping somewhere else?”

“Silva. Now hush, don’t spoil it.”

~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys like it! Let us know what you think? Comments always get greeted with enthusiasm and gratitude and the appropiate amount of squee. We're kind of amazed and dazed by the positive response this is getting. Did you know we have over 100 subscribers now? That's bloody amazing!
> 
> Also, if anyone else feels like creating art, for me(ginnyvos) at least, the offer is still open!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bond has an odd definition of courting gifts, we're all mad here and Q isn't buying it.

Bond woke up to the familiar unevenness of sand under his back, an air-mattress against his shoulder, and the undeniable knowledge that he should not be doing this. Or, rather, should not have done this. There was absolutely no reason for him to be camping out next to the bed of someone he was supposed to kill. Eventually. Even that was getting uncertain and fuzzy, questions and emotions getting muddled up in the mix when what 007 needed to be was calculating and focused. The reason he was 007 - a number that meant lethality, callousness, efficiency, and often a certain level of destruction that couldn’t be helped - was because he was very good at getting a job done and not looking back.

“Good going, James,” he muttered irritably to himself as he looked up at the lightening sky, hearing Q’s even breaths from near enough to reach out and touch - or smother, but he already knew he wouldn’t do it. “At least on other missions you actually _shag_ the enemy when you’re being a real bastard. Now you’ve downgraded to just lying next to the bed.” He wasn’t afraid of being heard because the pace of Q’s breathing indicated deep sleep - an improvement on the previous night, when Bond had been the heavy sleeper and Q had darted off without him even rousing. Bond sat up, looking about to see that the teens were once again arrayed in their beds not far off, a few snores still audible from here. Turning his head the other way, he looked down and over at Q, rolled up in a tight knot around the one blanket he’d kept. It was ludicrous that Bond wanted to loosen Q’s hold, if only to put the blanket over him.

Yes, this mission was well and truly fucked.

For more than one reason: the more Bond considered it, the more likely it was that Silva was aware of Q’s hacker identity. Unfortunately, it was mostly gut instinct leading 007 to this conclusion, and while gut instinct kept him alive most of the time, it didn’t fly very far with MI6 on a whole. Apparently reports looked rather bad when the entirety of an agent’s reasoning rested on a ‘feeling’. Bond’s feeling right now was that this was bigger than one hacker named Q, and killing said hacker would only destroy his best means of getting the big picture.

So instead of smothering Q in his sleep, Bond got up and walked away, at least proud that he’d woken up this time before Q’s minions could interrogate him on his questionable sleeping arrangements. His thoughts still going a mile a minute, 007 walked purposefully in a direction most people’s feet would want to go _away_ from. Silent as a reaper in the fickle predawn light, the sun’s first touch lining his short, mussed hair with pure gold and turning his eyes to glass, Bond approached the stretch of beach manned by the dead. They stretched out before him, as composed as one could make them, looking broken and lonely even though they lay side-by-side like some odd and quietly jumbled family. They were already beginning to rot, because nature was not a patient thing, especially in the heat of a tropical island.

Bond didn’t flinch from the smell, though - he’d smelled worse from corpses far more mangled, and far older besides. Q had said that some of these people didn’t even have names, at least so far as anyone knew of. Walking amongst them, a grim but reverent silence cloaking him, 007 patiently and efficiently memorized all of their faces. Even with decomposition and damage disfiguring some of them already, he had the training to discern actual features, composing a list of faces in his head that he’d be able to steadily relay to a facial artist if needed. Of course, he had a far simpler way of finding out who these people were. He began to check their pockets.

Other agents would say it was a crow’s work. Bond grinned humorlessly at the memory, thinking back to the days before he was a 00-agent. It was a grim job that lesser agents often ended up doing when assignments got grisly - checking over the body of a dead target for sorely needed information. As a 00-agent, Bond’s missions rarely came to that, but he still occasionally did ‘crow’s work’. Like a scavenging black bird, he now picked over the bodies, efficiently finding wallets and passports no matter how they were hidden or tucked away. If anyone had seen him, they would have no doubt yelled at him for desecrating and/or disrespecting the dead, but in reality Bond was quite professional about it. His movements were clinical and detached, and when he moved onto the next body, the last was utterly unchanged, except now 007 knew his or her name.

This took under an hour, and pretty much everyone was still sleeping. That gave him time to move down to the sea as he had with Q just yesterday, this time stripping out of clothing that now smelled of rotting flesh before going deeper into the water. His own suitcase was actually still in the ‘unclaimed’ pile, ironically, but he found a new set of clothes easily enough, and was sitting on the blanket next to Q’s air-mattress again sometime later, now dressed in dark jeans and an off-white button-down with his gun and holster simply lying next to him. He just sat there and waited, silent as those he’d been walking amongst on the far end of the beach, still damp from the ocean, while the rest of the crew woke up, Q included.

~*~

Quint woke slowly, the sun on his face dragging his consciousness back to his body even as everything in him clung to sleep. The awareness of his surroundings came in bits and pieces. The sun, too hot to be English, the scent, salt and sand and the heavy sweetness of plants and flowers. The mattress, not quite like a bed. His clothes and the sand that was absolutely everywhere. The sounds, of the sea, the birds overhead, the wind in the trees and the soft rustling of people waking up around him.

Regardless, he stayed where he was, eyes closed and utterly content despite the warmth and the knowledge that, when he did open his eyes, there were things to do, people who, for some absurd reason, depended on him. And thus he kept his eyes closed, floating on borrowed time for just a while longer.

It was really rather nice here, on the whole. The sort of place travel agencies put on their brochures to lure people in. Not exactly what Quint would go for, but… Well. He had to admit that it was nice. Would’ve been nice under different circumstances, anyway.

Maybe, when he found the time, he could take a walk, explore a bit. Maybe go into the jungle and pretend he was Indiana Jones on a quest to find whatever piece of treasure he dreamt up rather than just Quint, stuck on an island with very little he could do about it. He mentally checked at the silliness of that thought. Although…

He suddenly realised that there was something he hadn’t tried yet. As a matter of fact, he couldn’t believe that he hadn’t. He could try and make a connection to a satellite. Find out where they were and send out a distress signal to… to… someone. He’d come up with something. It could work. _IF_ he could connect to a satellite and hack it, it could actually work. How had he not thought of this before?

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes, only to come face to face with Bond. Again. Right… The man had slept right beside him, again, although this time the reason had been that much more clear. Quint suppressed a shudder at the thought of Silva, although thoughts of the man were much less frightening in the bright light of day, and sat up instead, giving Bond a sleepy smile. “Morning,” was all he said, hand feeling around for his glasses, which he’d left on his suitcase next to the bed the night before.

There was no smile on Bond’s face when glasses showed him clearly. If anything, the man looked like a grim reaper of sorts - a grim reaper now dressed in new clothes that stuck to him slightly with dampness, as if he couldn’t be bothered with drying off. It was already quite warm out, but the heat hadn’t yet managed to dry his hair, leaving it in messy, blonde spikes on his head. The agent couldn’t have missed Q’s voice or his moving around, but he didn’t move, eyes focused off into the distance still.

“Well, aren’t you just the paragon of cheerfulness this morning?” Quint teased gently, giving Bond a curious look but deciding not to ask. If the other man wanted to talk, he’d take the opening Quint provided. If not… Well, Quint understood the need to deal with things on your own. He just hoped that Bond would return yesterday’s trust and tell him when he needed to.

Even the gentle joking made Bond twitch, but it was enough of a prod to get him to finally turn his head - although his expression was one of his more foreboding looks, eyes sharp and pale like glass. Before he could really fix Q with a true glare, however, the larger man gave himself a physical shake and pulled himself back to the present. He scrubbed a hand back through his hair, making it into an even spikier mess.

Quint actually flinched back a little at Bond’s look, but then reigned in his reaction. He should honestly be used to the man’s erratic moods by now… He’d definitely seen enough of them pass by. He gently reminded himself that Bond was not there to hurt him. If nothing else, yesterday had certainly proved that. “Did you sleep well?” he asked, at a loss for what else to say, exactly.

Finally, Bond heaved a massive sigh, easing up fractionally and seeming to purposefully shove the grim mood away - or at least down deep enough that it wouldn’t lacerate those around him. “Sorry,” he grumbled in that voice that said he wasn’t, not really, but was probably feeling some indistinguishable guilt, “And yes, I did. But I have one question.” Blue eyes hadn’t quite moved back to Quint yet.

Quint started digging through his suitcase for anything appropriate he could wear. He came up with a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, the jeans probably too warm, but it would have to do. “Oh?”

“How many names of the dead didn’t you know?”

Quint stared at him, flabbergasted and instantly quite awake. He took a moment to mourn the loss of his mellow morning, but conceded that Bond posed an important question. He thought it over. “I, personally, only know one…” he frowned as Isa’s face shoved its way to the forefront of his memory. “I think with the help of the other passengers and the stewardess who made it, we can find-”

“Quint.” The name - which stuttered unexpectedly on the first letter, as if Bond had some sort of accent or something - stopped the smaller man from talking as much as the hand suddenly on his shoulder did. Complex emotion flickered across Bond’s rugged, tanned complexion, and his hand tightened in a steel grip for a moment before relaxing. “You now know seventeen of twenty-four, and if we ever get back to civilization, I can find out the rest,” he said without any preamble.

Quint stared at him, surprised. “We- we do?” he asked, thought-process momentarily derailed.

Letting go of him, Bond nodded, taking another deep breath and only twitching slightly with his battered ribs. “We walked past them last night, but I went back this morning. Most women don’t keep their ID anywhere but their purses, but I was able to find some bits of ID on most of them. I can go through the unclaimed luggage later and probably find more.” He shrugged, obviously not knowing or caring that what he was saying was just plain shocking. “As for the rest, that’s what sketch-artists are for. I’m passably good at remembering faces.” More than passably, actually, but he couldn’t exactly explain that he’d been trained to remember files and faces.

The sudden turn in conversation had Quint floundering for a second, but he must be getting used to it, because it took him only a moment to catch on. “That’s… Well, that’s really good actually. I just… I know it makes no sense as I don’t personally know any of them, and I definitely do not know their will or traditions, but the thought of them going to a grave unnamed just doesn’t seem… right. Does that make any sense?” Quint was still trying to make sense of the rest of Bond’s story, of what he must’ve done to gain those names. He finally just filed it away for later, as he’d done so many things. At this rate it would take him days to sort through everything on Bond alone, never mind all the rest that he’d shoved to the back of his mind. Now was not the time though...

“Quite a lot,” Bond replied instantly, more tension slowly draining out of him. He was still drawn as tightly as a piano wire, or like a cat that had just been threatened with water and was still coming down from the adrenalin high.

Quint’s face opened up a little at Bond’s agreement, glad that at least someone understood and he wasn’t going insane. Then again, Bond’s sanity was questionable as well, so it might actually be a bad thing. Oh well. At least they could be insane together. He almost snorted at that thought. Like someone like Bond would actually stick with someone like Quint… The only reason he’d been following him around was probably some misplaced sense of gratitude over Quint saving the man’s live. It’d pass soon enough once Bond realised Quint was nothing more than a skinny computer-nerd with a thing for the strong silent type. He pushed the bleak thoughts away and shrugged off his sweater, only to put on the shirt he’d dug up as quickly as he could. Not that Bond hadn’t seen him shirtless before, but there was no reason to remind him. “I’m glad. Maybe the others can identify some of the passengers you didn’t?”

Bond shrugged as if not willing to give the other passengers that much credit, but eventually he gave a nod. “You might get lucky. Most anyone who lost someone would be pretty vocal about it, though, from my experience.” He paused a moment, chewing at the inside of his lip, and finally turned his eyes back to Quint frankly to say, “You might not mention that I went looking for their names.”

Quint frowned. “How so?” What Bond had done was a good thing, even if the work was rather gruesome. As a matter of fact, it was something they should’ve done back at the airplane, where people’s purses and bags were close to them and it would’ve been much easier to find out.

“In my experience,” Bond explained, and then winced, realizing he shouldn’t have said that - he was already giving away more than enough of his experiences when he should have been sticking to his cover as a chef - but he’d already said it, so he just kept going soberly, “People don’t take kindly to other people pawing at the dead. The fact that it doesn’t bother me-” ‘ _Shit. Giving more away_...’ “-Will probably bother everyone else, in turn.” At that point, Bond stubbornly clammed up, furiously trying to figure out what it was about the skinny, bespectacled young man next to him that made him talk so much.

Quint stared at him, storing yet more information about the odd man away before trying to think of an answer to that. Then his mind flashed back to the Bond he’d woken up to, and he thought that for once, he might just know the right thing to say. “It didn’t seem like it didn’t bother you, earlier,” he said gently, soberly, going as far as to put a hand on Bond’s knee.

At the contact, Bond stayed very still, although he kept out a fairly normal facade outwardly. His eyes flicked to the hand, taking in the slim bones, the pale skin touched by sunburn. Briefly, he found his mind flitting to the fact that _most_ of Q was sunburned (as quickly as Q had changed just now, it hadn’t been quick enough for Bond’s eyes to miss the angry red of his smooth skin), and Sam should probably be told. Pulling his thoughts back into line, Bond worked his jaw awkwardly. Finally, words came out, low and gruff and almost too soft to hear, “It should bother me more.”

Yes, not talking at all seemed to be the best idea around Q. Otherwise he ended up saying things like that. When he got back to MI6, he was actually going to go to Medical for once, and demand a brain scan, because nothing else explained the way he was just talking like this.

Quint shrugged. “I think people might say that about me, too. The way we act might not always reflect the way we think, and it needed to be done.” His voice was quiet and gentle, gaze never wavering from Bond. “It’s a good thing you did, Bond, but if it makes you more comfortable, we’ll draw up a list of names and ask others to contribute, and no-one needs to know.” He slipped into silence after that, looking away to the sea, glittering in the morning sun. There was a light breeze today, and once more not a cloud to be seen. At least they had that going for them. Their plane would be missed and doubtlessly, search parties had already been send out. Quint would try to help them along by sending out a distress-signal of his own, but until they were found, they would make the best of it and they would survive. However long that was. Then, they could all go back to their lives, whatever those lives might entail. Forget this ever happened. It was the best for everyone that way.

Quint regretfully thought of the amazing people he’d already met here: Sam, Tara, Raman, Hasan and Ishya, Bond, of course, all the people who’d done their best to help these last few days… He’d actually regret saying goodbye to a good number of them. But it couldn’t be helped. It would do them no good, being affiliated with a man on the run from MI6. Who knew what MI6 would do to them if they found out they knew anything about Quint? If their prosecution of Silverfish was any indication… Despite the consequences, Quint didn’t regret his actions for one moment. It had been the right thing to do, he was certain of it. He just hoped that these people, good, normal people, wouldn’t end up suffering for what he’d done.

Sitting next to him, Bond had his own problems, mainly being that the one thing making him uncomfortable was that he was so _comfortable_ around Q. It made his shoulders twitch, and restless energy began to fill him. Finally he just stood up, belatedly putting on his shoulder-holster again and feeling better once the gun was tucked to his side. “I’d better go before those minions of yours get up and interrogate me about what I’m doing here again,” he muttered, rolling his neck to get the last kinds out from sitting so still for so long.

“Minions?” Quint frowned. “Really? You too? They’re their own people, you know?”

Bond stopped, already half-turned to leave, and suddenly looked back at Q with an impish expression taking over his face. It was truly a more foreboding expression than his glare from earlier. “Me, too?” Bond echoed with mock innocence, before letting his close-lipped smile spread. He couldn’t resist… “I _started_ calling them that.”

Sometimes, telling the truth was way more fun than lying…

Quint put his head in his hands and let out a truly heart-felt groan. “Of bloody course you did. I should’ve known. You are aware that now _everyone on this island_ is calling them my minions, aren’t you? Everyone.” It was absolutely ridiculous, and probably the least of his concerns, but it was just so… so… so utterly absurd. Preposterous. He fumbled for another synonym, but none was coming to him. That was it. Too ridiculous to put a label on. And besides, where did everyone get off on calling them anyone’s ‘minions’? Never mind Quint’s? They might be young, but they were their own people. He had no more to say about them than anyone else did. Which was exactly nothing. Damn it.

“Quint? Stop thinking so hard. I can hear it from here.”

Quint shot him a glare, but there was no heat behind it. He then shook his head and allowed a crooked smile. “You’re bloody mad.”

Bond grinned at the air, pulling a random bit of knowledge from somewhere deep inside of his mind. “We’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.”

Quint raised an eyebrow at him, but couldn’t help but grin. “How do you know I’m mad?” he asked, grin strengthening with every word.

“You must be,” said Bond, “Or you wouldn’t have come here…”

Quint laughed out loud by the end of it. “ ‘Alice in Wonderland’, Bond? Really?” Even when he stopped laughing though, a large smile remained, easily the most care-free expression Bond had ever seen on him. “I wouldn’t have thought a big, bad guy like you reads fantastic children’s literature…”

Lifting one shoulder, Bond put on a disarming smile, falling back on a ploy that always worked: people liked to believe he was all brawn and no brains. “Why not? Small words, short chapters, occasional pictures to break up the monotony. The miracle is probably that I would read anything _but_ children’s literature,” he lied easily, hands in his pockets.

Quint chuckled. He wasn’t buying that one for one second. Bond might look the type, but there was an intelligent brain behind those blue eyes, and Quint had seen the evidence of it on multiple occasions. If Bond wanted to let the world think that though… Actually, no, if Bond wanted to let the world believe that he was all muscle and no brain, he shouldn’t be so obvious about it. His loss. “And I’m sure all those metaphors and layered meanings went right over your head, too, didn’t they?” Quint asked, giving Bond a grin and a sceptically raised eyebrow.

Bond raised an oblivious-looking eyebrow of his own, and said without missing a beat, “What metaphors and meanings?” before smirking again and turning smoothly on one heel. He walked off towards the main camp without turning back, silently weaving through the ‘minions’ who were slowly waking up. He did, however, take the time to shove Tara’s air-mattress so that she awoke with a squawk. All without breaking stride.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand another chapter! Thanks for sticking with us and we hope you enjoyed our bit of madness!
> 
> Truth is having the two weeks from hell, so let's all keep our fingers crossed and hope she'll pass her tests. Ginny is celebrating though, because she gets to actually keep her job! That wasn't a sure thing for a while there... Update on Thursday might be a little on the late side since Truth has another test and Ginny is headed for the Unicef Children's rights convention to speak about foster care and the need for care even after children turn 18.
> 
> As always, let us know what you thought!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Q totally tells on Bond for the good of the island, Sam is having a Really Bad Day and Bond lets her unwind a little... And maybe himself, too.

When Quint arrived by Sam’s little corner of the beach, where he’d left his laptop the day before, he was still chuckling softly. Sam gave him an odd look. Quint suddenly noticed how tired and worn the older woman looked. He hadn’t really noticed yesterday, but thinking back, it’d been there all along. Gods, he was a right arse, so absorbed in himself that he didn’t even notice that others were hurting, too.

“What’s so funny?” she asked, at the same moment as he asked: “Are you alright?”

She gave him a smile that somehow wasn’t happy at all. “No, please, I could use a good laugh right about now…”

Quint gave her a curious look. For one single moment, he contemplated preserving Bond’s dignity… Then he remembered that Bond had basically saddled him with _minions_ of all things and decided Bond could take one for the team. “Nothing much, really…” He gave her a wicked grin. “Only Bond reading children’s books and quoting them with perfect accuracy...”

This did draw a bit of a smile from the older woman, and Quint grinned in pride over having put that there. “Oh, do tell…”

“He quoted ‘Alice in Wonderland’ at me, of all things. Perfectly accurate, too. And no, please don’t ask me how I know that. But apparently we’re all mad here, where Bond’s concerned.” He waited a beat. “He might just be right, too, when it comes to that.”

Sam laughed, but it wasn’t the laugh Quint had hoped for. There was something very… hollow about it.

“Sam?” he asked, concerned once more, “What’s wrong?”

Sam shrugged, not meeting his eyes. “You wanted to give the death a proper burial this afternoon, didn’t you?” she asked.

Quint was left reeling from the sudden subject-change for a long moment. They had been joking, taking a bit of a dig at Bond, and then… Where had he gone wrong? He sighed and, with effort, pulled his mind away from Bond and back to the situation at hand. “Yes… I think cremation would be the best, if everyone can live with that. I’d want to give them graves, but… Well. There’s twenty-four bodies and-”

“Twenty-six.”

Huh? “Huh?” He blinked at her, owlishly. “What do you mean?”

“Twenty-six. Might be twenty-seven, soon.” Sam seemed to shrink in on herself, never meeting Quint’s eye. Quint tried to make sense of it all. “I lost two of them last night, Quint. There’s another one… Gods, I don’t even know her name! There’s another one that I don’t think will last the day.”

He stared at her. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

She shrugged. “You had enough on your plate. Everyone does. You don’t need to be worrying about the wounded as well. That’s my task. Besides, I suppose I was still hoping… It’s the damnest thing. If I’d just had proper equipment, I might’ve been able to save all three of them. Here though, with the sand and without anything, even antibiotics, there was nothing much I could do.”

Quint stared at her, trying to put into words that it wasn’t her fault, that she shouldn’t have to do this alone, either. That they were here together and should lean on each other - and wasn’t that a hypocritical thing to say, when he never once thought of going to her when he felt overwhelmed and unable to go on - that she was absolutely brilliant and they would all be lost without her. But he just couldn’t find a way to say it that didn’t sound absolutely corny or like an empty pep-talk. He wished Bond was here instead of him, for a moment. Bond might not be perfect - dumping someone in the sea was _not_ a good way to comfort someone, no matter what Bond might think - but at least he mostly seemed to know what to say in situations like this. “It’s not your fault, Sam. I know you tried as hard as you could to save them,” he finally settled on. “A little too hard, even. Isn’t there anyone in this whole crew who wouldn’t mind lending you a hand? Even if they don’t know how to do it already, you could teach them what to do?”

Sam sighed and gave him a watery smile. “I know, I know… It just doesn’t always feel like that. Losing a patient is never easy, especially when I know I could’ve done more, had the circumstances been different. That actually sounds like a fairly decent plan, though. Do you know of anyone who wouldn’t mind playing nurse for a while?”

Quint let the other passengers pass before his eyes, trying to figure out who might be the most capable person to help out Sam, honestly happy to have something he could do. Suddenly he perked up. The woman and her two girls. That might actually work! “I might know someone!”

She nodded, giving him a smile. “Would you mind asking them?”

He gave a determined nod. “Of course not. I’ll go right away.”

Another nod. As Quint jumped up and walked away, he missed how Sam’s smile fell of her face as soon as his back was turned, only to be replaced by an expression that was bone-tired. Alone again, she was able to sigh and rub a hand over her face, collapsing in on herself a little. She was in the middle of turning - hand still rubbing her tired eyes - when she walked into something that she was sure hadn’t been there before.

“Wh- Oh, it’s you… So you’re courting Quint with children’s literature now?” Her defences went right back up, and she gave him a skeptical look. Not fast enough to fool Bond though…

Surprise flickered for only the sharpest of seconds on his face as he realized what she was referring to, then he gritted his teeth a little and rolled his eyes upwards. “Bloody figures. I’m going to get that scrawny git, next I see him.” He swiftly turned his attention back to her, however, noticing how the full daylight didn’t exactly flatter her. “You look half dead,” he told her flatly, adding in a way that sort of softened it but not quite, “More so than the rest of us.”

“Why mister Bond, you flatter me so… And here I thought you were too busy staring at our dear Quint to notice my radiant beauty…” she snarked, expression trying for flirty, but getting stuck somewhere between a smile and an exhausted frown.

At the teasing comment about him and Q, Bond looked a little as if he’d been slapped in the face, and he took an involuntary step back before regaining himself. His expression spasmed, looking troubled and - for a brief second, before he shut the emotion down - torn. He quickly had a smile spread on his face again, however, and even though it was fake it read as incredibly real. Shallow, but real. “If I knew you were open to flattery, I would have tried my luck ages ago. As it was, I expected a swift meeting with your fist on the first attempt,” he easily flirted back while he read the shadows on her face, deciphering them. He knew that look. “Perhaps,” he said, voice lowering as his mind worked, “a bit of distracting, benign flirtation would work on you right now?” He moved in just a little bit closer, but not enough to be threatening or quite inviting yet.

She raised her eyebrow at him, her smile winning in sincerity, even if it didn’t win in strength. “I could say flattery gets you everywhere, mister Bond, but honestly, we both know that you’re absolutely right in your assumptions regarding it. As things stand, I am a woman in peril, too busy even to attempt the most benign of flirtation…”

“Had to try,” he shrugged that away, and the subtle angling of his body instantly turned the nearness into something more open and friendly rather than sexual. By now, he’d bought himself enough time to watch her expression a bit more, so he had a few educated guesses as to what was going on. “That man with the broken leg didn’t make it, did he?” James asked in a very soft voice, his eyes never wavering from hers.

She stared at him like a deer caught in headlights for a long moment, then all the pretence dropped off her face. “No. Neither did the woman with the spinal injury. I’m almost positive the woman whose leg was amputated won’t get to see another sunset either…” She sagged against a tree, not meeting Bond’s eyes.

As if he had no concept of personal space, Bond leaned on the tree right next to her. It wasn’t a large specimen of plant by any means, so it put his shoulder right up against her, and his chin moved above her bent head as he seemed to idly survey the stretch of beach around them. He was still talking in that voice like distant thunder, the kind that didn’t threaten a storm but instead made a person strain a little to hear it. “And it feels like you killed them.” It wasn’t a question, and it wasn’t hesitant.

She looked at him sideways, as if trying to get a read on him, but then sagged back at the tree and stared at the people still lying beneath the trees, made as comfortable as she could make them with blankets and sand and not too much else. Two of them had blankets pulled over their faces. A man near to them let out a rattling cough before settling down again. A young woman, really no more than a girl, was tossing and turning, the sweat on her face visible even over the short distance. Two older people a little further off were holding hands as they slept. “Yes.” she said, after a long silence. “It does.”

Bond just nodded, as if he had suspected as much. This close, his every breath had his chest touching her right shoulder, and his nod brushing strands of her hair. The nearness seemed natural to him, though, as he seemed to pause and think. “Believe me, Sam, you didn’t kill them. Actually…” A muscle flicked in his cheek, as he was obviously mulling over his words with difficulty, shifting his weight slightly away and then coming back again - as if he’d considered leaving it at that and drifting off, but had decided to stay. Sam thought she heard him mumble something like, “I’m going to hate myself for this later,” before he raised his voice enough to grit out, “You’d know if you killed them. Killing… hurts less. It’s the deaths that you don’t mean that make you feel the most pain. So the hurt you’re feeling is a good sign.”

She whipped her head over to stare at him, eyes narrowed, then sank back in on herself. “I know I didn’t, intellectually. I know I did all I could to save them. Feeling, though, is another matter entirely.” She shrugged. “I’ve lost patients before this. I’ll undoubtedly lose more patients in the future. It’s never as bad as the first, but after that, it never gets any easier. I suppose I just wish I could take a break…”

“I’m good for breaks,” Bond rumbled, voice warm and close. “I’m also told that I’m quite shameless.” When Sam’s head lifted, he had a playful smile coiling up one side of his mouth, and his eyes were dark but interested.

Sam turned to him, tired smile in place. “I think I could use one of those breaks after all, right about now…” she said, and let herself lean against his chest.

Bond’s eyes glinted, a pleased little light as if he had only half expected her to see where he was going with this. Then again, Sam was quick to the mark, and Bond wasn’t exactly being subtle. “I think I can drag myself away for that,” he murmured, shifting again - once again, that little movement changed his intent. He was like a chameleon in his body language, he knew. The was something hotter in his eyes now, seeping into his posture as he carefully brushed his hands up Sam’s arms to her shoulders, letting one rise to touch the few strands of hair escaping her ponytail at her nape. The touch was… oddly reverent. Then, without further preamble, he pulled her head forward, lips catching her and instantly pressing to deepen the kiss.

It was a hungry sort of kiss. There was no romance to it - nothing hesitant, nothing flirtatious despite their jokes. If it was sweet, it was only because Bond was kissing her like something precious and unbroken, as if the dead didn’t swarm around both of them. Both of them knew that this wasn’t the start to some love story - rather, it was a forceful ending to a bad moment. Sometimes, memories couldn’t be pushed aside without help.

Bond had a lot of practice at helping.

Sam let herself sink into his embrace and into the kiss, but she was nowhere near a passive recipient. She kissed fiercely and a little desperately, dominant, but willing to let him play, too. There was passion and need there, but nothing of the swooning damsels Bond so often encountered. That worked just fine for him - he had some emotions and frustrations to work off, too, and instantly put his superior strength into play. They were far enough into the treeline to be out of sight of most of Sam’s weakened patients, so no one saw as James twisted his body, pressing Sam so that her back was flush to the tree. One of his hands was still around the back of her neck, fingers gentle by contrast. He was just as desperate in this moment as she was.

When a branch cracked behind Sam’s back, though, he instantly pulled back and lifted his head, expression unreadable and calm as instantly as if a switch had been flipped. For a moment, he was a tense predator, and Sam almost held her breath to wait and see what he’d noticed. However, as his eyes focused on something - or someone? - holding very still in the trees beyond, the emotions that flickered across his face was complicated. Surprise, at first, then challenging and almost rebellious. But those faded, instead leaving… surprisingly soft acceptance.

He turned back to Sam with an almost apologetic sort of smile, then gave her a soft kiss - this time on the cheek, gentle warmth where it had been a burning thing between them before. “You’ll survive this,” was all he said, and then he backed off with polite care. As he walked away, he nodded to whatever had drawn his attention before, “Quint.”

Quint stared after Bond as he disappeared between the trees. Well. That was…unexpected. And wasn’t that just the most awful thing to think? After all, Sam was an amazing woman, and beautiful to boot. Why wouldn’t Bond look at her and see that? He’d just thought… Hoped… But that just went to show how stupid he was. Like a man like Bond would even look twice at someone like him. Stupid, stupid, stupid. And besides, Sam both needed and deserved to have that. He had both of their friendship, and honestly, that was more than he could ask for in the first place. He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, turning his face up to the sky.

Yes, he was indeed an idiot.

After another long moment, he steeled himself, stuffing his feelings with all the rest of them. He stepped around the trees, within full view of Sam.

The woman was still leaning against the trees, soft smile on her face. She looked much, much more relaxed than earlier, and Quint couldn’t begrudge her that. “I think I’ve found you some help. Her name is Monique. She’s the one who has two little girls with her, and while she doesn’t have any experience as a nurse, she did care for the elderly for a long while. She’d be glad to lend you a hand or take over for a while when you need some… time away.” He was proud of the smirk he managed at those words.

Sam gave a snort. “Time away indeed… But thanks, Quint, that’s actually great news. She seems like the kind of woman who’s not afraid to do some work. And this would mean she doesn’t feel the need to leave camp to make herself useful while she has those little ones to care of, wouldn’t it?”

Quint nodded. “That’s what I thought… So have you seen my laptop? I left it with your supplies before the meeting, but now it’s not there…”

“Laptop? Oh you mean the case you’ve been dragging around! Haven’t seen it since, I don’t think. I thought you’d moved it…” She gave him an uncertain look. “You didn’t?”

Quint squeezed his eyes closed for a long moment, willing down the panic that was trying to take over. His laptop was his _life_. Literally. Behind endless layers of encryption after encryption, that laptop contained everything that made his life worthwhile. Every bit of information, every bit of code, every program and every bit of data that made up Quint. That made up Q. Without it… “Fuck.”

Sam looked at him, concerned, “Are you alright? It can’t be far... That much is for sure.” The last sentence was accompanied by a sour smile.

“I-” Quint pushed the heels of his hands in his eyes, rubbing. Trying desperately to keep off the panic a little longer. If the laptop was gone, that was one thing. If anyone managed to break in… There way no way he could explain the things they’d find to anyone who wasn’t part of the hacker-scene themselves. And even then… Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He needed to get it back and he needed to do it fast. How could he have been so utterly, absurdly stupid? How? Had the crash somehow taken away part of his brains? Had he bumped his head harder than he’d realised? He was such a bloody idiot! “I need to find it!” His voice actually betrayed some of his panic, along with his wide eyes, and Sam’s eyes widened at the urgency in it.

“Ask Bond and the kids to help you. I’m sure they won’t mind,” she said, matter of factly. “You _will_ get it back. The only place it can be is on the island.”

He gave a quick nod, but the tension in his body and his wide eyes betrayed that she wasn’t helping. He turned tail and walked in the direction of the beach though, so she counted that as a win. For now, she had patients to see to.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A day late, because I was at the Unicef Children's rights top yesterday, speaking about fostercare, which was awesome and inspiring and very interesting, but left me completely knackered when I finally got home. Did you know that yesterday, the convention on the rights of the child was 25 years old?
> 
> So I was honestly hesitant to post this because of... Things. That said, before you go and yell at us, I'd like to point you to the top of this fic and the pairing that's listed there.
> 
> For those of you in the US, I think it's thanksgiving where you are? If you celebrate it, happy thanksgiving!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the sun sets and things grow dark.

It was near nightfall by the time they’d build a funeral pyre large enough to hold twenty-seven people. A long, long line of driftwood and wood from the forest piled high wound its way along the beach, the dead laid out on top of it like some incredibly morbid guard of honour.

The living had gathered further up the beach, standing side by side, mirroring those whom they’d gathered to send off. Everyone was there but those too wounded to be allowed up for even a second, several of them hanging off of someone else, but determined to be there, nonetheless. 

Along the row, several people held torches that slowly burned down as they stood, silently, waiting for a sun to set. As agreed beforehand, the moment the sun was a perfect half-circle burning red on the horizon, those carrying torches stepped forward, lid the pyre, stepped back.

For one moment it seemed like the fire wouldn’t catch, and something clenched in Quint’s chest, but then the fire blazed with the same ferocity as that of the setting sun behind it, and he let out a small breath.

Eric was the first to step forward, his voice loud enough to be heard in the eerie quiet that had taken over the beach. “To Isabella Greenwood, to my Isa, beloved daughter, granddaughter and friend….” he stopped, tried to wipe away tears, tried to make his voice work, and all that could be heard was the crackling of the fire and the soft sound of the surf. “My cheerful, headstrong, beautiful little girl. Rest in peace…” He choked again and stepped back, whole body held stiff in an attempt, Quint thought, not to break down.

Another man stepped forward. “To Kazim Derré, rest in peace.”

A woman this time. “To Elisabeth James, beloved mother and wife. Rest in peace.”

They went down the line, each new person saying a new name and, for those they knew enough about to do so, a few personal words. Quint was near the end of the line, the four teens beside him and Bond beside that. They hadn’t talked since Q had come upon him and Sam kissing, but the gunman had obediently appeared again for the funeral. 

Sam stepped forward, holding up a man who was so injured Quint had barely seen him awake. Now though, he spoke in rusty, choked tones. “To Dhalin Resha, my wife of just four days. Go in peace, sweet Dha, and know that I loved you and will love you. Jaathasya hi dhruvo mr.thyur dhr.uvam janma mr. tashya cha. Thasmaad amarihaarye’rthe’ na tvam sochithum-arhasi.* I just wish that was not so hard…” They stepped back.

Quint swallowed and stared at the fire. The sun, behind it, was now almost gone.

“To Mike Rote, may he rest in peace,” Bond’s voice carried easily over the more distant drone of the surf as he, too, stepped forward a bit. It was odd to hear such a strong, unaffected voice, but maybe it would strengthen others.

Raman, after him, obviously tried to take his example and straightened as he stepped forward and called out the name he’d been given with as much strength as he could manage. It wasn’t Bond’s strength or steadiness, but Quint appreciated his trying nonetheless. Something in him wanted to smile at the boy’s obvious admiration for the older man, but the situation was too grim. Bond did, however, move a hand to Raman’s shoulder for a brief moment. 

Tara, after that, spoke in a clear voice, but she didn’t look at the pyre the way the two men before her had done. The ‘rest in peace’ was soft by contrast. Raman took her hand, and she let him.

Hasan, next, spoke softly, reverently. “To Eve Grant, who picked up my passport for me when I dropped it on the way in. I think she was nice… Rest in peace…”

Quint looked at the boy, not aware that he’d had any personal connection to the woman. Tara, in turn, grabbed his hand and he gave her a sad smile.

Ishya trembled a bit, when she stepped forward, and Quint wanted to give her a hug, shield her from the things that had happened. When she did speak, though, she looked up at fire and the air behind it, sun now little more than a red glow, and her voice was surprisingly strong. “To Tyrell French, Rest in peace…” she said and stepped back. Hasan grabbed her hand and Quint gave her a nod before stepping forward himself.

“To a woman whose name we do not know, but whose loss is felt none the less,” he said, staring at the pyre. “Rest in peace.”

He stepped back and gave in to the urge to wrap an arm around Ishya’s shoulder. She was trembling. He might be, too, a little.

After that, there were only three more deaths to call. Three more deaths of whom they did not know the name but, as Bond had said that morning, they would find out. After, a woman started singing a song in a language Quint did not know, but the tune was haunting and along the line, some people joined in after the first few words. Quint looked aside and saw that both Tara and Raman had, too. After a few moments Ishya, too, softly sang along.

Together, they all waited for the last sunbeams to die away, the fire not showing any signs of dying down against the night’s sky. Finally, the singing stopped and people started dispersing in groups of twos and threes. Another fire was lit in the camp itself, and food was served to those who joined it. The six of them walked there together, the teens never letting go of each other’s hands until they’d found themselves a place in the sand.

Quint stood on the edge of the fire-light, wondering what he should do now. The teens probably needed his support, but… He’d spend a good part of the day looking for his laptop. Had even asked the teens for help, as Sam had proposed. He’d not asked Bond though, because… Well, if he was perfectly honest, because the image of him and Sam was still fresh in his mind, to make something clench inside him every time it crossed his mind’s eye. He hadn’t been able to find any sign of the laptop though, and doom scenarios had been following each other up at rapid speeds, flitting through his mind like fish through water: Quick, elusive and impossible to catch.

Perhaps he was just that distracted, or perhaps Bond was just a bloody ghost all of the time, because the very man he’d been thinking off was suddenly slipping into view at his shoulder. “Quint,” he said, as if he hadn’t just snuck up on him. 

Quint jumped a little, head whipping around to look at Bond over his shoulder. “Bond…” he answered, unsure of what to do or say.

The man was watching him curiously, blonde hair a mix of gold-black shadow of pale yellow in the more distant firelight, and he eventually jerks his chin towards where the small gaggle of teens are getting food. “I thought for sure you’d be with your minions.” 

Quint gave him a slight scowl at the mention of minions, but there was no heat to it as his face fell back into an expression of worry once again. “I… Have something else I need to do.” He frowned. Was he going to tell Bond? He had a feeling that the man would be a great deal more helpful than the kids had been, more adept at figuring this out. He remembered how Bond had told him he was a chef, back on the plane. Well, Bond might not be MI6, out to kill him, but he definitely wasn’t a chef, either… He sighed and made a decision. “My laptop… I took it back with me from the plane, and left it with Sam’s supplies yesterday. It’s gone. I need to find it. It’s-” For a moment, Quint just wanted to tell Bond everything and be done with it. He couldn’t though… Couldn’t endanger the man like that. What if MI6 found out Quint had talked to him? After all, if nothing else the other passengers would probably be happy to point out that him and Bond had been friends on the island when questioned. No. “I think I could maybe send out a message, get a lock on our location and lead whoever is searching for us to our location, but I need my laptop and it’s gone. I’ve been searching all day, but no one’s seen it…” he finally settled on, miserably. 

Blue eyes blinked at him, once, expression oddly closed off. He looked away, seeming to be thinking… hopefully about whether he had seen said laptop. Finally, with a musing sort of growl in his throat, Bond chewed the words over and asked, “Where have you looked so far?” It wasn’t exactly, ‘ _ I’ll help you find it, _ ’ but with Bond, it was probably the next best thing. 

~*~

His laptop… Q was worried about  _ his _ laptop ! Bond had thought that the smaller man was acting odd, but he figured it had started when Q had walked in on him kissing Sam. Apparently, something different was at play. And to be honest, 007 wasn’t sure how to deal with it. To a hacker of Q’s calibre, a computer was a type of gun - his weapon of choice. With it, Q could probably do things that Bond couldn’t even imagine. Logically, that mean that having the laptop go missing was a good thing, as it basically left Q unarmed. 

But that laptop also likely had key evidence on it, and Bond was still heavily leaning on the idea that there was more to this than just killing Q and being done with it. If that laptop contained all of the data from MI6 still, then the real danger was someone else getting their hands on it. 

It sounded like Q had looked nearly everywhere, even asking the teenagers for help, all with no luck. Bond was a pro at finding things he wasn’t supposed to find, however, and after clapping a hand reflexively on Q’s shoulder, he walked away to do some hunting of his own. When Q asked where he was going to look, he’d merely given an enigmatic smile, leaning back in long enough to say in Q’s ear, “I imagine everyone is around the fire eating now, don’t you think?” He intended to search people’s things. Morally, this was wrong - luckily, 007 rarely let morals bother him. He disappeared into the gathering night before he could see whether Q realized just what sort of searcher he’d recruited. 

As he’d guessed, everyone was at the ‘wake’ (although no one was calling it any more than supper, in subdued tones), and for a man his size, Bond was surprisingly stealthy. He actually passed a few people as he went towards the little nests of blankets and air-mattresses nearby, but even people who walked by within touching distance never noticed him. Even if Q had wanted to stop him, he reflected with a wolfish grin, the boffin wouldn’t have been able to find him. Bond stepped out of the shadow of the trees to bend over a collection of airplane blankets and sand pushed away around the indentation of a human shape. There were only so many ways to hide a laptop. 

Of course, Bond fully intended to try and break into the laptop himself before returning it to Q, but the clear distress on the hacker’s face had tugged at him, and it drove him as much as anything else. Bond surprised himself by realizing that he wanted to find the laptop - not just to get the information to keep MI6 safe, but to calm Q. Because Q… Q looked like he was well on his way to being a wreck. The impulse to touch him had been disturbingly obvious at the forefront of 007’s mind. 

Bond had pretty much given up on one of the passengers having taken the computer (unless they’d been smart enough to bury it far away from their sleeping arrangements, in which case needle in a haystack would be an understatement), and was debating whether to widen his search or go back to Q… To see if the man had had a panic attack yet. Maybe he’d subvert one of Q’s minions to keep an eye on their ‘boss’...

Distant noise caught Bond’s attention though, between him and the main hub of the central fire. A few people were wandering back to sleep, but this was a group he was hearing, and Bond’s fine-tuned ears were quick to pick up temper in their tones before he even got close enough to hear the words. 

“You’re just a stupid kid!” a balding man yelled, temper clearly fraying beyond redemption as one of the teens backed up away from him, “You act like you know what’s going on, but you don’t!” 

It looked as though one of Q’s minions had been getting on people’s nerves again. Perhaps taking his laptop search too far - perhaps even in the direction that Bond had taken his, but with less skill. Either way, Raman looked as though he’d pushed a few of the other passengers too far. Ishya and Hasan were just coming up behind him, eyes widening at the scene they’d come upon. 

The look of belligerence that the youth were known for was falling away to worry as it became clear that here, on this island, the usual social leniency that kept annoying teenagers safe were no longer in effect. Violence began filling the air like the oppressive weight before a storm. It was the kind of violence that had been avoided so far, but clearly the funeral had scraped people’s nerves raw - to the breaking point. 

Raman moved to shout something back, bristling and probably just as scared as anyone else on the island who had just seen over a score of their comrades cremated. At that point, it was likely a toss-up between two outcomes: either the teens would gang up and ward off trouble by force of numbers, or a brawl would break out in which people would get injured. The usual peacekeepers - Dr. Sam, Q, Bond - were supposedly out of hearing range, so no one was hesitating. Neither was Bond, of course, and he scowled and began to stalk forward to where everyone else would notice him. 

Unexpectedly, though, none of that happened. Before Hasan and Ishya could get to him or the balding man could lunge at the supposed source of his ire, a large shape stepped out of the shadows right behind the kid. Silva, for all of his size, moved like a ghost - a very powerful ghost. He was behind Raman in a heartbeat, large arm locking easily around the slim neck. Raman stiffened, his eyes growing wide. From the corner of his eye, Bond could see Ishya and Hasan freezing in place.

Silva tisked, eyes cold and dark. “Now really, people, “ he murmured, tightening his arm but otherwise ignoring Raman completely as the boy in his grip began to struggle madly, “Just because we are stranded does not mean we must disrespect one another.”

Honestly, everyone seemed a bit busy being disturbed by how nonchalantly Silva was holding onto his impromptu captive - he wasn’t strangling the boy, not quite, but he didn’t seem to care how he treated him either. Raman may as well have been a piece of firewood, locked within the crook of Silva’s arm. The man who had at first been ready to punch the teen now looked as if he wanted to rescue him, but was too intimidated by Silva’s size and cold little smirk. 

Silva had technically stopped the fight from happening, but his callousness indicated that he didn’t exactly mind a bit of violence. “Don’t you agree, boy?” he asked sweetly, turning his face in, close enough that Raman jerked his head away with a frightened little breath. Silva’s grip was inescapable, however, his arm tucked snugly enough under Raman’s chin to prevent any attempts at biting - or even any attempts at moving his skull more than a few centimeters. Usually, Tara and Raman were the most outspoken of the young people, but it was hard to be outspoken with a man easily twice his size breathing against his ear, and Tara wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Bond figured that was probably a good thing. Silva tightened his arm enough to make Raman squeak. 

“Silva.” Bond’s voice wasn’t loud, but it was harsh, a hammer tapping warningly on an anvil. He stalked swiftly from the trees without looking away from the pale-haired man. Beyond them, Ishya and Hasan had shuddered in relief as Bond’s blue eyes locked on Silva’s with the obvious intent to spear through the back of his head. “Let him go.”

For a second, it looked liked Silva wouldn’t comply, and his free hand locked around one of Raman’s wrists where the boy had been quietly trying to claw through his shirtsleeve. Raman made a little noise as the large fist tightened, grinding the bone’s of his wrist and hand together.

Just briefly, Bond’s expression twitched, and his eyes snapped down to Raman before hardening again and returning to Silva. “Do I need to repeat myself more clearly?” he asked in a deathly low voice that sent shivers up the backs of all those listening. 

Finally, Silva’s face twisted into an abrupt sneer, and he released Raman. The boy stumbled away, gasping. Bond didn’t watch him. His attention was fixed on the real threat, and he figured that the other teens would look after their companion. “Just preventing a fight, James,” Silva explained with silky sincerity, spreading his hands and even casting Raman a benevolent look.

Raman scowled and looked about ready to storm right back in, Hasan right behind him, but Ishya was holding the both of them back, looking desperately afraid. Hasan was the first to give in to her, seeing the look on her face and deflating. The two of them pulled back a struggling Raman, Ishya throwing her arms around him and Hasan holding his arms. Raman struggled a moment longer, mumbling curses, but finally relented, sinking into Ishya’s arms and allowing her to hug him.

“Go,” Bond ordered to everyone at large before things could get heated. For a man who hadn’t been giving many orders up until now, his tone was commanding enough to send even the balding man who had started it all shuffling away. Silva, of course, stayed where he was, smug and complacent expression still all over his face. He and Bond were like rocks as water flowed around them, staying put even as their place in the sand cleared. The teens were possibly trying to catch Bond’s eye, but he had bigger things to worry about, and remained unmoving until he knew that it was just him and Silva. Tension crackled like a bolt of lightning trapped and angry between them. 

“You should know that that was just a bit of fun,” Silva started his defense by saying. In all honesty, he didn’t appear to be trying that hard - if anything, he looked pleased when Bond bristled. 

“A bit of fun that included a kid a fraction of your size,” Bond kept his temper to return poignantly, showing a small and cruel smile of his own as he cocked his head and added, “Not much fun for him, I’d wager. Plus, people aren’t going to like you much if you spend your time picking on children.”

“And how about you?” Silva countered, not put off in the least. If anything - and this was the most disturbing part - he seemed to be exactly where he wanted to be. “How much will people like you if they knew you snuck around, digging through dead men’s pockets like a rat through trash?” As surprise jerked across Bond’s face before settling into wary anger, Silva continued, “But, then again, I suppose they dislike you already - you, the only armed man here. People tend to hate what they fear, and they fear people with an advantage. That’s you, James, dear.” Silva put on a face of sad sympathy, clucking his tongue. “It’s only because you stick to Quint that no one has turned on you yet.”

“I hardly think that that’s the case.” Bond’s voice sounded nonchalant even though the words were hollow. Silva’s words were working their way under his skin like needles, sewing unease in their wake. 

“Don’t lie to me, of all people, James,” Silva scoffed, voice hardening like a slap. He pressed on before the blue-eyed man could reply, “I understand you better than anyone here - except, maybe a certain hacker named Q. But he doesn’t know what you are yet, does he?”

Bond’s blood froze, and every muscle in his body locked for a split second. A roaring filled his ears that he knew was shock - his own heart-beat skyrocketing in the moment before he could calm himself and push his training to the fore. Then his posture shifted subtly, weight balancing evenly and shoulders loosening. “What are you talking about?” he asked reflexively, but his mind wasn’t even on his words anymore. It was focused on the man in front of him, who was suddenly every bit as dangerous as he’d suspected he was - if not more so. 

Silva made a tsking sound, shaking his head forlornly as if at a poor student. “Now, what did we say about lying, James?” he frowned, seemingly saddened by the other man’s behavior, “There’s no need to lie to me. I already know everything.”

And then, just as James’s muscles tightened, Silva lunged. 

~*~

*Jaathasya hi dhruvo mr.thyur dhr.uvam janma mr. tashya cha. Thasmaad amarihaarye’rthe’ na tvam sochithum-arhasi. - Hindu saying: For death is certain to one who is born; to one who is dead, birth is certain; therefore, thou shalt not grieve for what is unavoidable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Funerals, angsty Quint, brooding Bond, rising tensions and Silva shows his true colours... Oh my... And you get a cliffhanger to booth.
> 
> So yes, a dark chapter. What do you think of it? Did we do justice to it?


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they fight.

Bond was swooning. The world never held still in a fight, and it was only that crackling hatred of adrenalin and the pounding of blood in his ears that kept him going - kept him moving with the fight. He felt like an adder, swaying before a strike, only he could taste his own blood in his mouth. He’d lost his gun in the first rush, because of course Silva was the kind of man who went for weaknesses - a swift tackle had put them both on the ground, Bond’s gun the bone of contention between them. It was perhaps a blessing that neither of them had gotten a good enough grip on the weapon, and it had ended up skittering away into the undergrowth instead of going off while the two men continued to brawl, surging to their feet with clenched fists.

The pain was its own beast, especially after a hard punch from Silva’s into his damaged ribs; it grappled and clawed at his thoughts, trying to rip them free of his head. 00-agents were a determined lot, and Bond was the most stubborn bastard of them all, so instead of crumbling or blacking out from the pain, he bared his teeth. “Try that again,” he growled, so low and beastial that it was barely understandable... but definitely sincere, “and we’ll see how well your face wears a smile with your jaw in three pieces.”

Silva was panting, too, viciousness making his eyes look nearly wild and bloodshot, but he must have been able to interpret the snarled threat - then again, beasts like them spoke the same language, didn’t they? He smiled, all teeth this time. “I didn’t know you could be this much fun, James,” he purred in a low rasp, and then he was charging forward again, sand flying up beneath his feet.

Ribs ignored, Bond leapt, too, knowing that this wasn’t the kind of fight he could sit back and bide his time on. There were some fights where patience and training won out over rashness and vigor, but Silva was too good for that - too good by half. This was an even fight, with the advantage perhaps even lying with Silva thanks to the wounds 007 carried. The knowledge that he was fighting someone just as deadly as he was sent a cold bolt of fear to James’ core. Something about Silva had made him edgy from the first time he’d seen the man move, recognizing leonine steps and natural, predatory grace, but Bond had still underestimated him. Now, he still didn’t know exactly what Silva was, but Silva knew what _he_ was.

Bond had looked at Silva and had seen a predator.

Now he faced off against him and saw a wolf with bloodied jaws, grinning and panting smugly.  ‘ _You let me in too close, didn’t you_ …?’ his expression seemed to say.

 ** _‘No_**.’ The denial was sharp and hard in Bond’s mind, and he decided right then and there that while he’d made a mistake in not killing Silva the first opportunity he’d had, he wasn’t going to make any more mistakes where this man was concerned. Whatever Silva was - foreign spy, assassin, soldier-for-hire - James was going to remove him as a threat as thoroughly as he possibly could, consequences be damned.

There were people gathering around now, wide-eyed with shock - some sobbing in horror at the violence that they were now close enough to see in graphic detail. Bond and Silva were moving like two dogs in a ring, too fast and viscous for any sensible being to get between. Silva was going for injuries, clearly loving to play dirty, but when Bond got one punch in on the other man’s chest, Silva howled. He stumbled back with a shocked glance down at himself, seeing blood seeping through a rent in his shirt before looking up at James, who wore a grim and humorless little smile and was hiding a piece of glass in his fist. He’d scooped it off the sand without hesitation when he’d seen it, eyes showing nothing as it cut into his palm. Where the jagged tip protruded through his fingers, it was incarnadined with Silva’s blood. James immediately charged in again, eerily silent unless weathering a punch. He was more than an attack dog: he was a hound built for war, vocal cords cut to make him efficient in his silence, his entire being honed and whittled down until all that mattered was the cut and the parry and the dodge. 007 was all teeth.

Blood was everywhere, spattering sand and nearby trees as the two laid into each other with a kind of ferocity usually only seen in cats and particularly rabid rats. The fact that they were much bigger than either only made it more frightening to watch. Most of the other survivors could only cover their mouths and stare, not even knowing why the two men were fighting. Tempers had grown short for everyone, sure, but this wasn’t just an unfortunate letting-out of frustration: this was a grudge-match. This wouldn’t end until one of them was locked onto the other and watching his life fade away.

“Stop it! STOP!” It was an older man, in his late fifties, but he was bloody big, and his voice carried. He still might not have been able to halt the brutal scrap, but 007 was on his last legs and Silva was also starting to see his mortality on the edge of 007’s improvised blade. Taking advantage of the other’s split-second attention to the shout, Silva threw him off, watching as James skidded back in the sand, wavered, then steadied on his feet. 007 was still leaned over and panting, teeth bared and blood dripping freely from his nose. It had already trailed down over his chin and throat like warpaint, off-setting his eyes to make them a fiery blue. By this point, his right arm looked nearly useless, but he swept the left one out and back in like a swordsman testing the weight of his blade - ‘ _I’m just as good with my left,_ ’ the motion said. The rest of his body was telling him to collapse in the sand, of course, but was ignored.

Silva’s eyes were feral and wide, mouth open as he gasped for air. He had a startled look, and it was clear that this… this was more than he’d expected. A quick kill had perhaps been on the dockets, but definitely hadn’t been the outcome. Only now, Silva seemed to notice the crowd. He blinked as if wondering what to do next. It was the most out of his element he’d ever been, and if 007 had had the strength, now would have been the time to finish Silva off.

But wounds were tallying up. James twitched forward, a surge of muscles visible right through his clothing as sweat made the cloth cling to him. One step forward had him staggering, however, and pure frustration made him cry out wordlessly, a sound too vicious for human lungs. But he refused to collapse - instinct and adrenalin wouldn’t let him. Even as Silva slowly calmed down and realized what he’d gotten into, Bond stayed on high alert like a burner stuck on ‘high,’ ignoring the agony that flooded his system with every heave of his chest. The big man who had broken up the fight was calling for everyone to step away even as 007 stumbled back, his spine hitting a tree with shuddering impact that had everyone wincing.

“Bond… Bond!” It was Sam’s voice and a moment later the petite doctor stepping forward. Her eyes wide, full of concern. The instant James’s gaze swung to her, however, her breath caught, because nothing in them said he’d calm down any time soon. He’d finally been pushed to the edge… and the edge was mighty hard to come back from when a person was already drained and hurting. 007’s hand clenched around his improvised weapon until blood dripped out of his fist in fat drops, letting the pain keep him alert instead of letting himself collapse, even as Sam released a little whimper. She didn’t get any closer, because when she made the slightest move, those eyes narrowed - became deadly. They’d shared a moment of vulnerability earlier that day, both understanding the pain of death - a no-strings-attach sort of release. Now, though, Bond wasn’t letting her in.

“What in the world happened here?” Quint’s voice, tones clipped and demanding. The man walked over the sand with large steps, taking in the scene with obvious ire. Behind him trailed Ishya, looking scared and worried and like she was possibly about to cry. Quint stopped, still several meters away from both Silva and Bond. He exchanged a few looks with Sam, silently communicating with her. “All of you, go. Mister Silva, if I hear one word from you or see you near me, Bond, or anyone else today, I will skin you. You would be surprised how effective I can be at that.” His tone sounded perfectly calm as he said this. Frighteningly so, as a matter of fact. When it looked like Silva might protest anyway, however, Quint leveled him with an ice-cold look. “Go.” was all he said, and Silva, shockingly, went.

The crowd dispersed slowly, several people seeming reluctant to leave Quint alone with an obviously dangerous Bond. Sam went as far as to take Ishya by her shoulder and steer the younger woman away. He did not spare them a look, though. His gaze stayed focussed on the man before him. He silently waited as one by one, the last people left them alone.

“Bond.” he said, voice steady and devoid of any other emotion.

Blue eyes had already been locked on his face as Bond panted, breathing strained because his chest didn’t want to go through the motions - not this quickly, at least. Clearly, the killing edge hadn’t been completely dulled by everyone else leaving, because all he did in response to his name was shift his feet upon the sand, getting a better balance while still leaning heavily against the tree behind him. It was insane that he could still be holding that chunk of glass so tightly in his hand without any pain showing on his face - everything was locked down, locked away.

Apparently that didn’t include recognition, however, because there was the faintest twitch of his eyebrows as he finally really looked at Q, and seemed to note whom he was speaking to. Perhaps there was something ridiculous about the skinny boffin approaching the feral agent, because James’s expression showed confusion.

Quint calmly met his eyes and his expression revealed no fear and no anger. “You are bleeding.”

“That’s generally what happens when you try to kill someone and it doesn’t quite work,” the words ground their way out of Bond’s mouth like pulverized glass, full of threatening intent still. It was like watching smoke peel from between a dragon’s jaws even after the fire had dissipated. Bond’s eyes were cold, though, cold and resigned like death itself, because this was all old news to him. He didn’t let go of the glass, nor did he sit down. Instead, stubbornly, he straightened. Now his weight was evenly situated between his feet again - a fighter’s stance as he began to eye Q as a possible additional threat.

“Bond, please drop the glass. It’s hurting you.” There seemed to be no particular emotion in Quint’s voice as he said that, just the same calm assurance he had been broadcasting the whole time.

At long last, the larger man seemed to pick up on it, and the muscles along his shoulders jumped as if startled. James turned and regarded his hand, most of it now red and sticky. “Damn,” he said without any particular inflection, then shifted his wrist and grimaced - it became obvious that perhaps he _couldn’t_ let go. He was trying now, though, the tendons of his arm shifting as he glared down at the offending limb.

Quint seemed to consider for a moment. “May I touch you?”

At least James was slowly becoming more himself. He sighed, eyes closing tiredly, and thumped his head back against the tree behind him with a following wince. He muttered a few more curses in what was possibly (but not assuredly) Russian. “May as well,” was what he finally grunted, just letting both arms drop to his side.

With slow, deliberate movements, Quint walked up to him, lowering himself to his haunches next to Bond and lifting up his hand. Quint’s fingers were long and elegant, but surprisingly powerful as he folded one hand around Bond’s, cradling it and allowing Bond’s hand to rest in it, while the other took one finger at the time and carefully found the right points to put leverage on to fold them open, navigating them away from the glass’s edges. His expression was sympathetic, but there was no room for pity in the sharp focus he paid to his task. For his part, the agent remained still except for minute quivers of his muscles, like aftershocks running through them, or impulses quickly smothered. He didn’t even grunt as his hand was finally opened up and the glass - more or less imbedded in his palm - removed so that it could drop to the sand.

“Want to tell me what happened?” Quint asked, repeating the same words Bond had used on him what seemed like an eternity ago, but was only the day before. His right hand was still cradling Bond’s, matching the agent’s movements and supporting it at the same time.

Despite how ill-advised the idea was, Bond flexed his bloodied fingers, baring his teeth in a hiss as it made his knuckles creek and some of the wounds open more. However, he answered after a moment, “Bloody Silva seems to like picking on your minions. I guess I’ve grown more attached to the little buggers than I realized.”

“I heard. That can’t be all there is to this, though. What else?” Quint’s voice was gentle, but there was a core of steel behind the words, as if he never even doubted that he would be answered.

James’s brows pulled together for a moment, clearly a bit surprised by how much command could be put into such a soft voice. Then, however - he took the coward’s way out. He grimaced and started sliding down the tree, finally giving up on standing. All of his muscles stood out in shuddering discomfort, and Q was faced with the option of either backing up or being hit by one of James’s long legs as they slid out slowly from underneath the man. Blue eyes were tightly closed and his ripped-up hand was closed again - it took a second to compute that Q’s fingertips were still trapped in it. Bond seemed too dazed to notice.

Quint steadied himself with one hand against the tree, but didn’t move. “Bond?” he asked, voice maybe a little bit too tight, but never losing it’s steady quality. “Don’t you dare go all damsel in distress on me. You do not get to do that and just faint on me without answering.”

“’M not fainting,” James protested, voice a bit thick, “Just trying to think of a better answer.” ‘ _And maybe stalling until someone else gets here… so that I can lie to_ them _, because I’m getting sick of lying to you_.’

Quint started wiping the blood off Bond’s face with his free hand, never pulling back the hand that was still caught in Bond’s. “How about the truth?” There was no accusation in his voice, no condemnation. Just gentle amusement underlying with that same steel.

One blue eye slitted open to look at him in what might have been a wary glare. It was almost amusing - or it would have been, to see such a disgruntled look on the agent, if it weren’t for the way the blood on his face was smearing more than going away. Bond finally shifted enough to just reach up and grab Q’s hand with his injured one, keeping the slim wrist locked in the circle of his fingers as he pulled the hand away. “I think Silva has you laptop,” he finally blurted, and because he still had hold of both of Q’s hands - and finally seemed to realize this with a little twitch of surprise - he could feel the hacker jerk.

“My… _That’s_ what this is all about? My laptop? Damn it, Bond…” Quint looked genuinely distressed for the first time since walking in on Bond and Silva trying to kill each other. “Yes, it might get us found sooner, and I wholeheartedly agree that Silva is one seedy character, but that’s not a reason to… to…” He closed his eyes for a moment as if to contain his own emotions, and when he opened them again, his face and voice were calm once more. “Come on. We can figure all this out later. For now, I’m getting Sam to have a look at you, and I think Raman has a thing or two to say as well, and then both of us are going to sleep. I’m knackered, and you’re going to try and wait until that moment before you pass out, because I am not bloody carrying you again.”

Bond snorted in amusement, eyes slipping closed even as he released Q a bit belatedly. “I’m sure your minions would save you,” he retorted lightly, smiling. He hadn’t tried to get up, though, which was just bloody annoying.

Quint rolled his eyes at him, then took his good arm and started pulling it over his shoulder, not paying any mind to the blood he was smearing all over his shirt in the process. “Come on, up you go, you big lump,” he said, fondness shining through in his voice.

At least the larger man helped, pulling his legs under himself and pushing up eventually. As they both managed to get upright, Bond swayed a bit, frame tensing, and his left hand clenched down reflexively on Q’s shoulder. “Sorry,” James muttered, looking past Q’s head to see the red handprint he’d vividly left behind.

Quint shrugged, as much as he could with most of Bond’s weight leaning over him. “Just try and not get into fights to the death again any time soon, would you? You know how Sam worries…” There was something the tiniest bit off about the tone, but Bond had no time or energy to contemplate that. “You’re a big bloody idiot, but… Thanks, I guess. For saving Raman. For trying to help me. It’s appreciated.”

“It’s what I do,” Bond replied, even if his humor was a bit strained as he walked, “Good deeds all around. When I’m not being absolutely horrible, that is.” He was doing that thing again where he shoved the pain down somewhere where it could be ignored until it either went away or incapacitated him, allowing him to take some of his weight off Q and walk mostly under his own power. This close, every flex of muscles along his frame was communicated through Q, until it almost seemed that the burning adrenalin was a physical sensation wrapped around the larger man.

Quint shrugged again, using the motion to duck a little further under Bond’s arm, taking back some of the weight. “Fair. You’re still a bloody idiot for doing it though. Just saying.”

They lapsed into silence after that until they arrived at Sam’s infirmary.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'd forgotten just how intense this chapter was. I just reread it to do the last round of editing and my heart is right there in my throat along with yours. Luckily, I get to go on and reread the next chapter... I really do feel sorry for all of you.
> 
> Feel free to let us know how evil we are for making you wait until Monday (I do agree with you, see) and do share any other thoughts on this chapter... We do promise some silliness in the next chapter. Does that help?


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which sandcastles are desecrated, Bond is very homing-pidgeon, everyone is still completely buying the sleepwalking excuse, because _obviously_ that's what's happening and the writers will definitely not be leaving you with a cliff-hanger... Again.

Sam, who’d been sitting with the four teens grouped around her, saying something in a soothing tone of voice, jumped up the moment she spotted them, alive with frantic energy. “Bond! Quint! Are you alright?” It wasn’t quite clear which of the two men she meant. “Right, Quint, put him down over there.” She pointed him towards a blanket by a tree, where Bond could sit against a tree but still on a blanket, presumably in an effort to keep sand away from whatever wounds he’d sustained.

For the first time since Q had summarily ordered everyone away, Bond tensed again, pulling back reflexively even against Q’s hold. He obviously recognized who everyone was, but the sudden company had some of his instincts - not yet put to rest again, apparently - rising up again like the hackles on a dog. Q, oddly enough, was either ignored or not put into the same category as Sam and everyone else as Bond’s blue eyes swept warily over everything.

Q seemed to notice the tensing of the body pressed against his, but pointedly ignored Bond’s trying to pull away from him, pulling him a little closer instead. “Bond,” he said, the same calm, steady voice he’d used earlier, “I’m going to put you down by that tree there. Sam is going to look you over, and I’m going to stay near as well. The rest will keep their distance. Can you keep still for us to do that?”

It took effort, but Bond dragged his gaze back, seeming somehow surprised to find Q still there. Jaw tight but eyes clearing up again, he nodded, but seemed to wait with unexpected obedience for Quint to take the first step forward before limping along with him. He swore loudly and quite fluently as he was let down, enough so that the teenagers clearly couldn’t decide whether to clear out of there or start taking notes. A pointed glare from Sam at least convinced them that they had best forget Bond’s most recent words entirely. Bond slipped his arm off Q’s shoulders only to wrap both around his own middle, sinking his head forward onto his knees for a moment. “Bloody fuck, remind me of this next time I decide to try and kill someone,” he grated out, before remembering that the next time he tried to kill someone would probably be very soon, considering he was a 00-agent. In fact, it might even be Q. The request was still valid.

“It worries me,” Sam deadpanned, coming over, “That you say that so easily and also don’t sound the slightest bit regretful.”

Bond pulled on a bleached-bone smile. “Maybe because I’m not-” he started to snark, then winced again.

“Shut up, Bond,” Quint said, without much infliction, “And sit still so she can do her job. Sam, do you have some rags and water somewhere so we can clean this idiot up?”

Sam nodded, shooting Quint a sharp look, before turning to the teens. “You four, make yourselves useful and grab some water and rags from over there… Honestly, I’ve had a long enough day without idiotic men fighting because apparently they can’t just use their words like normal people… Bond, cooperate, or I’m leaving you like this.”

The teens scrambled to obey, and not a minute later, Quint had what could only be a child’s sandpit bucket filled with water and the torn up scraps of several pieces of clothing at his disposal. By now, Bond had settled down enough that he was just flashing vaguely distrustful looks at everyone, and those glances probably weren’t personal so much as directed at doctoring in general. The only real sharpness to his gaze was usually when he was looking past everyone, as if watching for intruders even though he was really in no condition to deal with them if he saw one. He actually jumped at the first touch of a wet cloth to his face, jerking away annoyingly; his hands twitched as if he’d almost batted the hand away, too, proving that he was a bad patient - but _could_ be a worse one.

While Sam carefully prodded at Bond’s ribs, grumbling all the while, Quint dipped the rags in water and started cleaning Bond’s face, his careful touch a counterpoint to Sam’s much less gentle ones. “I really do hope this won’t turn into a habit, Bond, me dragging you here half-dead… I can think of much better uses for my time, definitely,” Quint said, still in that steady voice, as if he hoped that it would ward off Bond’s violence as long as he kept on talking. “Quite a few, actually. Down to building sandcastles..”

“And here I was hoping you’d suggest something more _fun_ ,” Bond retorted, with just enough of a smirk to show that his usual personality was back. Or, at least, one facet of his personality, since he seemed to go through moods like a teenage girl went through shoes. Giving up on doing anything but sitting, he tilted his head up, letting Q get at the streaks of red that had gotten all the way down to the collar of his shirt. “Tell me, Quint,” he prompted, eyes mostly closed but for a playful glint aimed purely at Q, unwavering, “How else would you have me use my time?”

On the other side of Bond, Sam looked up, eyebrows climbing towards her hairline as she alternated between looking at Bond and at Q, as if asking, ‘ _Is he for real_?’ She was trying to get his shirt out of the way to get a better look at the damage he’d no doubt done to his healing ribs.

Quint met Sam’s eyes before looking back at Bond, one eyebrow delicately raised. “Oh, I don’t know…” he said, voice contemplative. “Write poetry maybe. Read some children’s books… I imagine you could make quite a spectacular sandcastle of your own, now that I’m thinking about it. Tell me, Bond, what would your sandcastle look like?” Quint sounded for all the world like his question was absolutely serious. The four teens, looking on from a distance, but never taking their eyes off the scene, snorted.

That lazy glint of blue between pale lashes was still watching Q, although Bond proved that he was paying attention to Sam, too, when he finally pushed them both back enough to just remove his shirt entirely. Clearly, he was tired of her pulling at it, or else the blood drying on the collar was getting on his nerves. The hand nearest Quint was the one ripped up from glass, and Bond glared at it after he let go of his shirt and settled his bare back against the tree again. “Could I bury both of you two in my sandcastle?” he asked in a grumpy sort of growl.

The teens were all out giggling now, and Sam was making a valiant effort to conceal her own laughter, but Quint merely gave him a whimsical smile. “Must be a bloody big sandcastle then. Quite spectacular, I’d imagine. But that really seems quite impractical, Bond… Who would patch you up, next time you go feel the need to go all cave-man and exacerbate your injuries?”

“Hmmm…” Bond actually seemed to be considering the conversation. He looked liked he would have crossed his arms thoughtfully if one of them weren’t fractured. “How about this - better plan. I bury _Silva_ in a sandcastle. Or better yet, I bury him in _three_ sand castles, after I cut him into three pieces-”

“Bond, mind the company, please…” Quint said mildly. He finished cleaning Bond’s face with a last wipe of the rag and exchanged it for a new one, taking Bond’s torn hand. Behind him, the teens were protesting, but Quint paid them no mind. “One can actually build a sandcastle without burying a body beneath it, believe it or not. But tree sandcastles… Would they have strategic positioning? And would they reinforced? Knowing you, they probably would be. How would you reinforce your sandcastles, Bond?”

Abruptly, Bond’s hand went from placid in his grip to moving, twisting around with a slick movement that was probably not something most people were trained to do. Almost before anyone realized it, Bond had a firm grip on Q’s wrist. It was tight only for a second, though, much like most of his reflexive grips before, which always loosened a second later as he gentled his strength to match slender bones and artistic fingers. “Quint,” Bond said firmly, finally lowering his head so they were eye to eye, squeezing a little around Q’s pulse, “I’m back now, all right? I’m not going to go psychotic as soon as your voice stops.” Blue eyes searched Q’s face, trying to make it clear that - for once - James wasn’t lying. “So unless you really want to talk about sandcastles, how about someone tells me if Silva has turned up yet? I gave him a nasty cut to the chest that has to be hurting him by now.”

“Allow me to doubt that as long as you’re still so motivated to bury people under sandcastles…” Quint grumbled, but he fell silent, pointedly waiting until Bond would let him go, so that he could return to his task.

Sam shook her head grimly, seemingly just as eager to change the subject. “I haven’t seen him - and if anyone else has, they haven’t told me.” She had hold of Bond’s right arm now, and was actually fashioning a splint for it, perhaps in the hopes that he’d leave it alone a bit more if the break was more obviously protected. Her eyes slyly avoided the fact that Q’s other wrist was still trapped in Bond’s grip as if the blonde-haired man had just forgotten it there.

Quint gave both of them a surprisingly grim look. “I do hope he stays away. Skinning someone makes such a mess…”

Sam stared at him, scandalised, and the minions abruptly fell silent. Bond, for his part, fought a smirk before giving Q’s wrist one more squeeze. When he let go, however, it was only to shove Q’s shoulder lightly and command with utmost seriousness, “No sandcastles for you.”

“And here I’ve already got my bucket…” Quint replied plaintively, looking at the bucket stained with Bond’s blood. There was a small smirk playing around his lips as he once more took Bond’s hand and started cleaning away the blood.

~*~

“James Bond, for the love of all gods, what the flying _fuck_ are you doing there?” Sam’s voice was loud enough and angry enough to make the gods run for cover. Some of the teens could be heard falling out of their beds and hammocks.

Quint’s eyes shot open, and he groaned. Right there, next to his mattress, was Bond. Again. His eyes were open, fixed perfectly upwards on the lightening sky with a martyred sort of expression, and they flicked to Quint first as if hoping for some sort of salvation there. He still didn’t look particularly guilty about anything - just sad that he’d gotten caught.

“Didn’t you go to sleep in the infirmary?” Quint asked, conversationally, completely ignoring Sam, who was just about shooting steam from her ears.

“I might have,” Bond hedged, likewise ignoring the fuming woman. It should have intimidated him more: he was flat on his back with his arm in a cast (although he’d once again ducked out of the sling at some point) and had an angry force of nature standing over him. “Why do you ask?” he finished with a thin facade of innocence over a definite grimace as Sam put her hands in her sides and dialed her glare up a notch.

“Just wondering.” Quint’s eyebrow rose. “What’s your excuse this time?” He sounded genuinely curious.

“I’ll tell you as soon as Dr. Sam stops her glaring. It’s distracting,” Bond muttered through his teeth, but then decided to take matters into his own hands. No use lying down for his own funeral. Q’s bed moved as Bond swung an arm out onto it, because his other one was out of commision and he needed to push himself up. Calloused fingers grazed Quint’s arm before bracing on the mattress, letting Bond sit in a fluid roll of muscle. “Sam…?”

Sam rolled her eyes. “What part of ‘Lay down and don’t get up until I’ve checked your injuries in the morning’ is so hard to understand, Bond?” she asked, suddenly sounding tired.

And instantly, that smile was there - the one that could charm birds out of the sky. Even though he couldn’t have slept well, had been in a full-blown brawl yesterday, and hadn’t seen a bar of soap in days now, that handsome face was suddenly the kind that coaxed women to bed. He was quite shamelessly directing it at Sam, but Quint could more than see it, and Bond’s hand was still propped on the air-mattress next to him. “I sleepwalk,” he informed her with a little wince, as if admitting to something embarrassing. He didn’t even hesitate, though, and the words came out as smoothly as butter. “And I seem to sleepwalk _here_.”

“It’s true,” Tara’s voice piped up cheerfully from a little ways away. “It’s happened before.” Her smile was strangely cheeky.

“And of course, you always sleepwalk right over to Quint, don’t you?” Sam asked, leftover pique fighting with a smirk. “How very homing-pigeon of you…”

Behind her, the minions, who, it seemed, had recovered from Sam’s rude awakening, were snorting and giggling. Quint, right behind him, laughed. “Quite,” he said, eyes sparkling. “So let me get this straight: You were asleep in the infirmary, wounded so badly that you could barely move without wincing yesterday night, got up, still asleep, walked all the way here, without waking anyone up or walking into any trees or falling over any holes in the sand, still asleep, lay down right next to me without waking me, still asleep, and then didn’t move again for the rest of the night… I must say Bond, those are some spectacular sleepwalking skills you have there. Bravo!” Quint said, the amused smile on his face clearly audible in his voice.

The man had the audacity to turn around to face him, his innocent expression marred somewhat by the wicked gleam - the ‘I’ll-get-you-later-for-this’ gleam - that had filled his eyes. All he said, however, was a succinct, “Exactly.” The only thing harder than getting a 00-agent to tell the truth was to get them admit that they’d been lying to begin with.

“Right, perfect explanation,” Quint said with obvious false sincerity. “Now I understand completely…”

This minions were all out laughing now, Tara and Ishya giggling and the boys roaring. Sam had completely given up her anger and decided that her worry was better spent on people who actually followed doctor’s orders and was smirking at their banter. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he has a thing for you, Quint, dear…” she said, grinning and meeting Bond’s eyes even as she spoke to Quint. Those eyes said one thing, and one thing only: ‘ _Payback, honey_ …’

Quint sputtered and looked away, for once happy about the painful burn he’d acquired, because maybe now, no one would see him turning bright red for a different reason, for a change. For his part, Bond’s flippant expression had slipped a bit, blue eyes narrowing as if trying to find exactly what angle Sam was metaphorically hitting him from. Apparently he was being blindsided so far, because he didn’t have an answer ready.

To the side, Hasan had began humming the age-old ‘sitting in a tree’ song, grinning like a loon. Tara and Raman were grinning from ear to ear and Ishya seemed to be holding in a squee.

Quint quickly turned away, finding his glasses and putting them on. “Breakfast! It’s time for breakfast,” he said decidedly, not quite able to hide just how flustered he was.

Sam likely hadn’t meant to hit such a raw nerve, and Bond looked a bit confused by the suddenly evasive behavior. The teens were far enough away not to notice, thankfully - and food overcame all ills to youngsters like them, so they were whooping and racing across the sand before any of the adults had had a chance to move. Looking at them, it was almost possible for forget that they weren’t simply on vacation. Sam followed after, saying something about not needing someone breaking an ankle by sprinting in loose sand like that. As if on cue, Raman tripped Hasan, and the giggling didn’t quite drown out Sam’s yelling as she caught up with them.

Before Quint could follow, however, a hand locked around his arm. “No, you stay,” came Bond’s voice, calm and nonthreatening but definitely implacable as the man stood next to him. The bandages wrapped around his left hand were slightly stained with red and would have to be changed soon.

“I do?” Quint blinked at him, trying for a sceptical look.

“Yes, because Silva is still missing - I know, I checked - and so is your laptop.” It was a good thing that Sam wasn’t around, because Bond’s lie about sleepwalking sounded pretty shoddy when he admitted that he’d actually made some pretty broad detours before heading back to where Quint was sleeping. Bond had figured that Quint was the most likely person Silva would sneak up on if the man was still hanging around. “But before we - I - do anything…” He took a deep breath, eyes narrowing almost dangerously and hand making it impossible for Quint to slip away. “I have to know: why do you want that laptop so badly?”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which tempers flare, confessions are made and guns are drawn.

_Chapter 16_

Quint gave him a long look, obviously taking the time to put his thoughts in order after yet another extremely quick change in mood. “I told you,” he said. Then sighed. “Let me start again. I don’t just work with computers, Bond. I am _good_ with computers. Very good.” As he said that, there was a confidence in his face and body-language that Bond had not yet seen in him. “Not only is that laptop my life and livelihood, which would be quite enough reason for me to want it back, but it might be our ticket off this island. Everyone’s ticket. With it, I might be able to connect to a satellite, find our exact GPS location and send a message to the authorities. Whichever authorities those might be. I haven’t quite gotten that far yet, to be perfectly honest. I figure the airline we flew with or the coastguard of the nearest inhabited bit of land would get the job done. Why is that so hard for you to grasp? You’re not nearly as stupid as you pretend to be.” All the playfulness had gone out of Quint, his gaze serious and sincere.

The larger man’s eyes were still narrowed, and his jaw was flexing as if he were physically chewing over the words. For some reason, he wasn’t just swallowing them, although he dearly seemed to want to. With a sudden, quick movement, he’d transferred his grip from Quint’s arm to his chin, and suddenly looking away was impossible. “I need you to tell me that that is all you want it for.” When Quint tried to jerk back his head, Bond’s other hand locked around the back of his neck, but his gaze stayed intense - almost desperate. Almost pleading. “Say it! Is. That. All?”

Quint gave him a look that held the middle between panicked and confused. “Of course it is! What the _hell_ is wrong with you?” He almost yelled, something he rarely did, trying to tug loose again but failing miserably.

For a second longer, Bond kept his grip - enough to lead to the terrifying realization that Bond was _strong_. Far stronger even that he appeared. Strong enough to break someone like Quint. As abruptly as he’d grabbed him, however, something on the larger man suddenly seemed to give. Muscle by muscle he relaxed, and then his arms dropped. There was something different to his face, something hovering between relief and resigned acceptance that made him calmer than Quint had ever seen him - even back on the plane when he’d been offering him a drink and everything had been fine… Or as fine as anything ever got, aboard a bloody air plane. The memory was bittersweet and Quint winced slightly at its taste. Bond let out a bone-deep sigh and seemed, for once, to relax the constant tension Quint hadn’t even noticed him carrying, until it was suddenly gone. “I believe you,” was all Bond said. It was said softly, almost reverently. Then broke the rest of the odd mood by looking down at his arms again - one hand with bandages now quite strained red, and the other with its makeshift splint. He grimaced, then glanced up. “Don’t tell Sam about this?”

Quint stared at him, something like horror warring with confusion and a resigned sort of pain. “Only if you tell me what the hell that was about,” he demanded.

Bond had the decency to look regretful, and then sighed again, then willingly threw himself under the bus. “Oh, you can tell Sam that I manhandled you - just don’t tell her that I messed up her handiwork again,” he elaborated, clearly having an odd way of facing up to his bad deeds - or at least categorizing which ones were worse. Prioritizing didn’t seem to be one of Bond’s stronger sides. “The first I probably deserve a swat for.” It was murmured half to himself and accompanied by a mild wince, shifting his weight away from Quint awkwardly while shaking out the stiffness in his left hand.

Before he could leave, Quint grabbed his arm. His good arm, even though it was further from the hand grabbing it. “Bond. What was that about?” he repeated, gaze earnest and even a bit concerned.

The blue eyes were narrowed as if against the sun, even though it wasn’t bright enough for that yet. There was once again a long pause, the kind that usually would preclude a very good lie. Instead, Bond said in a low tone, “Do you want me to lie to you?”

Quint gave him a look that said he was seriously questioning Bond’s sanity. “Do I _look_ like I want you to lie to me?” he asked, obviously reaching some annoyance thresholds of his own. “What. Was. That. About?”

“What do you know about MI6?” was the lightning sharp reply, even while Bond shifted his weight - the same way he’d done when preparing to fight or kill. Q recognized the stance.

“It’s the secret service, slash Big Brother, slash the NSA’s bitch.” There was something in his look, but it was impossible to get a read on under Quint’s very real defiant annoyance and impatience.

“Not good enough,” Bond snapped back.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Quint asked, glaring at him. “MI6 is a bunch of bloody stalkers, and control-freaks to booth. They use the money the British citizens pay and the fear of terrorism the American government so conveniently created to spy on the British people, and those in the rest of the world besides. What more do you want me to say Bond?”

“I want you to tell me the _truth_ , Q,” Bond was seething and before he could think about it, he was stepping forward until he was crowding the smaller man - and then froze, realizing that he’d said ‘Q’ and not ‘Quint’.

Quint blanched, but didn’t back down. Behind his defiant glare, though, an expression of very, very deep hurt became more and more apparent. “So that’s how it is, is it?” he asked, all emotion leaching from his voice to leave only ice cold and steel. “I suppose it makes sense: get close to the target to make sure just how much they know, ply them and make them trust you, and then crush them. Only logical. Foolish me, believing that someone like you might actually enjoy the company of someone like me. Fuck. All I ever asked for was the right to disagree with my government. A basic human right. I never hurt anyone. Suppose you see that differently though, don’t you? Or do you just not care? Is this just orders for you, nothing more?”

Temper darkened Bond’s eyes a full two shades, as if this somehow offended him, too. Words low but succinct, he said with mock amusement that sounded bitter instead; “Funny how you talk about getting close to a target and finding out what they know. I was supposed to just kill you when the plane landed.”

Quint’s eyes widened at that, but then he spat in the sand. “Figures. As afraid as you lot are of free speech, you wouldn’t even give me a chance to talk, to explain myself.”

“Shut _up_ , Q, and tell me about how you got the list!” Bond suddenly bellowed.

“List? What bloody list, Bond? I know I probably overestimated your intelligence, but please do me the favour of not insulting mine.” Quint looked absolutely furious by this point, the anger effectively covering the hurt that still shone through in his words.

Suddenly, though, Bond wasn’t listening. He’d been watching Quint’s eyes carefully, and either he had seen something, or there had been something absent that he’d been betting on finding. Deceit, maybe. In fact, now Bond was stumbling backwards, eyes suddenly flicking back and forth as if seeing some list of his own - an invisible list of things now flashing across his mind. “Fuck,” he swore quietly, and continued talking softly to himself as he brushed a hand back through his hair. “I knew something about this didn’t add up…” The passage of his wounded hand left blood in his hair.

“Now what?” Quint snarled, still angry and scared and hurt and definitely not willing to just roll over and give in. “Forgot how to get that gun out and kill me? Or is that too suspicious? Maybe you should just hit me over the head with something. Seems your style. After all, couldn’t have your investigation of the other innocent people in this island be impeded by the fact that you killed me, could you?”

“Q- Quint,” the correction actually felt wrong, but Bond pushed past it, trying to think while also feeling the sting of Q’s temper hitting home, “Can we not have a discussion about the various ways in which I could kill you? Because that would be a long and uncomfortable talk, I assure you. And if you could just bloody stop and _breathe_ for one second, I’d tell you why I haven’t actually done so yet.” Some of Q’s anger was contagious - or maybe Bond’s was still there, licking near the surface like the blood from his lacerated hand was. He had yet to notice the red he’d smeared on his hair - but, then again, he’d been trained not to.

“What, you want to discuss the weather over tea and biscuits and _then_ kill me? Maybe bury me under a fucking sandcastle? Here lies Quint Locke, who was foolish enough to trust in the decency of human beings and sandcastles. Idiot.” Quint spat it out, but flinched at his own words, now very obviously only lashing out in reaction to how hurt he himself was feeling. Bond was starting to stare at him as if worrying that he was going insane.

“Q, if you really don’t know about the list - and unless you’ve become a bloody good liar in the last five minutes, I believe that you don’t,” Bond made an effort to calm his voice, so that only one of them was radiating anger right now, “Then I’m not going to kill you.” He shook his head as if both disturbed and amazed by how derailed this whole thing had gotten so quickly. “You don’t even know what happened, do you? How can you hack MI6-!” So maybe his voice was rising a bit again, despite his best effort. At least their stretch of beach was empty. It wasn’t often that an agent got to yell, but somehow, it didn’t feel as cathartic as Bond had been expecting. “-And not know that you stole the list of all its undercover agents and threatened to _expose them on the fucking internet_?!”

This finally seemed to snap Quint out of it. He swallowed, shuttered away his feelings and emotions with heartbreaking efford. When he looked up again, all of it was gone. All the closeness and the friendship and the trust and all the hurt and anger. “ _That’s_ what you thought I did? That’s what you believed me capable of?” He shook his head, wiping a hand over his face. “No, Bond, I know nothing about a list. I definitely don’t know anything about your undercover agents. I’m no killer. I don’t kill people just because I don’t agree with them. And yes, I did hack MI6,” there was a bit of pride in his voice, if only for a very short period of time. “I hacked them so a whistleblower wouldn’t wake up one day with a gun to his head, or that of his family. That is all I did.”

Bond’s eyes had flickered briefly with surprise at the admittance to Q’s actual actions, but now they were flat and dead. “A gun like mine?” he said softly, then continued with a smooth roll of words, “Because I didn’t think you capable of killing anyone. Hell, I didn’t think you capable of being much more dangerous than a common sparrow - but I’m just a gun. I imagine you have that part figured out. But you know what?” He cocked his head, the movement of a bird of prey, devoid of any emotion but still filled somehow with coldness. “For some reason that escapes me entirely now, I felt that I should stop and question these orders.” Q wasn’t the only one capable of lashing out and hitting where it hurt.

“A gun like yours,” Quint said, quietly. “All because he was about to reveal some information that reflected negatively on the government and-” Suddenly his eyes widened, as if he’d connected some dots. “Fuck.” He said, soft and heartfelt.

Bond had twitched when Q had so icily agreed to his killing nature - something that shouldn’t have surprised him, but somehow slipped into the soft spaces between his ribs like a knife anyway - but now he laboriously pushed down the tangle of emotions, wincing as they flexed painfully behind his sternum. “What?” he growled, more interested than anything else in the fact that Q was no longer ranting at him and blaming him for all of this. Very wary curiosity glinted in his glance.

Quint, in the meanwhile, had gone white as a sheet and crumbled in on himself. “I think you might’ve been right to kill me after all…” he said, so soft Bond almost couldn’t hear him.

Well, that did a good job of removing the last of Bond’s temper. For a moment, he’d been considering the same thing, but it hadn’t been a serious consideration - only about as serious as the times he considered smothering M with a pillow at night - and now he found his feet moving him forward without even thinking it. His hands hovered, almost touching Q’s shoulder while his eyes reflexively looked for injuries even though absolutely nothing had happened. “Q?”

Quint flinched away from his touch, but didn’t move away and didn’t look up to meet Bond’s eyes. “I… There was a hacker named Silverfish. He’s an ex-MI6 agent. Or said he was, anyway. He told me he had several documents revealing MI6 has been up to very much the same things as the NSA has been doing over in the USA. He was afraid he’d end up like Snowden or Assange, if not worse. He has a family to worry about, but was determined to do the right thing. To protect himself and his family, he wanted to remove all information MI6 had on him from their servers. I created a backdoor for him, and he used it to get into their system. I think… I thought… But if it was my hack… Fuck. Bond, I think he stole that list through my hack. All those people… Because I was so fucking gullible. So yes. You did find the right person. And yes, you do have every right to…” The sentence hung in the air, unfinished, but it’s meaning perfectly clear.

Bond just watched him for a second, eyes unreadable and narrowed. He looked every inch the killer like that: his frame had been tense from the moment he’d asked Q what he thought of MI6, and now he had blood in his hair, speckling and spiking it. The bandages and his general roughness did nothing to detract from that, but rather added to it, honing that lethal edge. Suddenly, he was moving his right arm and wrapping his hand comfortably around the butt of his gun.

Q just stood there, head down, not reacting, not even flinching, although he had to know exactly what Bond was doing. He looked frail, defeated in a way that mirrored how he’d been on the beach, but somehow worse. “Can you- Can you make it quick?” he finally asked, voice small and barely audible.

The soft click and thuds were loud in the silence. However, instead of having the barrel pressed to his head, Quint heard a soft, low sigh, and then a scarred hand took hold of his, turned it over to face up and pressed something cold and smooth into his palm, followed by several more before folding his fingers around the objects. “Stop being such a martyr, Q,” Bond said gruffly, but somehow there was fondness in there more than taunting. Actually, somehow, the words weren’t harsh at all. The next sigh ruffled Quint’s hair, because the agent was really quite close, and had leaned his head in a little more before the tired sound came out. There was the faintest flicker of humor, weak but there, as Bond finished with mirth, “I think I liked it better when you were lecturing me.”

Quint opened his hand. In it were all the bullets from Bond’s gun. He stared at them, blearily, then back at Bond, eyes large with a lack of understanding. “What...?”

“I’m a gun of MI6,” Bond shrugged, as if that explained most of it, then nodded down at the bullets, “Am I a bit easier to talk to now that you have my bullets? And by talking I mean without either yelling or insinuating that you want to be shot between the eyes.”

Quint looked down at the bullets in wonder for a long moment, before suddenly his legs seemed to give out under him and he sunk into the sand. His hand clenched around the bullets and he pulled it to his chest, staring up at Bond. When he spoke, his voice seemed to try for answering humour, but came out choked instead. “I suppose I could try that…”

“Good.” Bond heaved a heavy breath, looking immensely grateful for a moment, although he had to pace for a while longer still before he could even hope to settle down. It was a bit disquieting, because the agent seemed to insist on pacing a circle around Quint, but his thoughts were obviously elsewhere. “So let me get this straight - you hacked MI6 for _someone else_?”

Quint shrugged, miserably. “Yes. I mean… In part. I guess part of it was for me. To see if I could, you see?”

Bond stopped walking long enough to stare at him like he was nuts. Then he just shook his head despairingly, muttering, “You have an odd way of getting your adrenaline fix, Q. That’s probably something MI6 would have noticed anyway - but they wouldn’t have sent a 00-agent after you, so kudos to you for accidentally being labeled as dangerous enough to be worth my time.”

Quint flinched and pressed the hand holding the bullets a little closer to his chest. He was actually shaking a little.

“Do you have any idea who this… Silverfish is?” Bond got the next question out, every inch the agent getting information. This was actually one of the nicer interrogations he could remember, thought, so he was calming down by degrees. The only things still keeping him tense were the unknowns. Oddly enough, being disarmed didn’t bother him at all.

Quint shrugged and shook his head. “I’m pretty sure he actually _was_ MI6 at one point. I did verify that.” He looked down. “Beyond that, though… Maybe if I had access to my full bank of computers and a good internet connection, but not like this.” He still sounded small, the slightest bit broken, but seemed glad to focus on the matter at hand.

“Well, we don’t have that,” Bond sighed, finally stopping his pacing. He was standing in front of Quint now, and finally stopped looking out towards the trees or to the sea long enough to look down at him - small, gangly, and folded into a small sitting shape in the sand. Carefully, Bond noted that the bullets were in Q’s left hand and moved to his right side, before slowly lowering himself down next to him. There was a small space between them, but not much, and Bond’s eyes were half-lidded as if he didn’t notice. His demeanor had shifted yet again, however. “We do, however, have _you_ \- the only person smart enough to hack MI6, to my knowledge.” He bumped Q’s shoulder slightly with his, but instead of moving back away, let it rest there as if he were too lazy to pull back all the way.

Quint nodded. “I’ll do whatever I can to help. I’m pretty useless without my laptop, though… And even then, I’m fairly sure all I can do is send out the distress signal and get us off this island a little faster. I’d need a full setup for a hack like this. Silverfish might not be able to hack MI6, but he’s good. He’s also incredibly paranoid. I’m good with computers, but I can’t actually do magic.” It was said with a wry smile. It wasn’t much and lacked any of the sharpness of Q’s usual responses, but it was the very first sign that Q was returning to himself.

“Funny you should say that you’re useless without your laptop,” Bond said, seeming to find that somehow amusing. He turned his head, nodding to Q’s hands, “Right- or left-handed?”

Quint stared at him like he thought Bond might’ve gone off his rocker. “... Left?” he finally answered, hesitantly.

The agent nodded and then he was slipping his gun out of its holster again, barely flinching as his arm protested. “Good, because one of your hands is going to hold this gun, and it may as well be your good one. Can you re-load it yourself?” he asked as if this were the most normal thing in the world, eyes competent and unruffled as they looked to Q.

Quint stared back at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Why would I want to do that?”

Bond’s eyes got hard all of a sudden, and he said with a low and deadly sound like a predator growling, “Because right now, the only problem I can worry about is Silva - and he seems to know that you are Q, and that I’m 007, and if he decides to go after you, I want you bloody armed. Now take the gun before-!” He stopped and sighed, turning his head away with a tight expression before dragging a hand through his hair in a jittery sort of gesture, making it even messier but finally realizing that the bandage on his left hand was stained right through. That only made him frown. “Nevermind,” he grumbled, not finishing the sentence because it seemed to bother him. “Just take it, Q.” Much more quietly, he placed the weapon on Quint’s lap, being careful not to startle or even touch him unduly before removing his hand and folding both over his bent knees. He stared off as if looking at something far away, or back in some dark memory.

“So what’s going to protect you?” Quint’s voice was quiet, but the concern was genuine. He hadn’t taken the weapon. Had, in fact, lowered the hand holding the bullets and opened it, seeming to hold them out to the agent. He wasn’t meeting Bond’s eyes.

Bond seemed surprised at the bullets being offered back to him, and he raised a carefully wary brow without otherwise moving his muscular frame. “I thought you were afraid I’d put one of those in you, Q,” he said carefully, without ire but certainly with a hint of question behind it.

“We both know that if you wanted to kill me, you wouldn’t need the bullets. It’s the thought that counts and I appreciate that. But we also both know that if Silva does become a threat, that gun is far more useful in your hands than mine. Besides, don’t you think everyone, including Silva, would find it a bit odd to suddenly see me with the gun and you without it? No. Take it. It’s yours.” Quint swallowed and still didn’t meet Bond’s eyes.

“Q?” Bond lifted his right arm, showing the bandages. “I can’t shoot it.”

“What? Big, bad MI-6 agent can’t shoot a gun with his left arm?” Quint asked, obviously skeptical.

Bond’s expression warred between annoyed and flatteringly impressed. “I was hoping you wouldn’t be smart enough to realize that,” he said, not bothering with modesty for the fact that he could shoot equally well with either hand. He finally took the bullets back, also reaching for his gun and loading again with meticulous care. “Although, after my run-in with that piece of glass, I can’t promise I’ll be much use with this hand either,” he noted in a rueful undertone.

“Never insult my intelligence, Bond, that way lies peril,” Quint said, with another crooked grin. “Besides, you do remember where the last gun I held ended up, right?”

Chuckles were starting up in the agent’s chest, and he admitted with a wry sort of grin, “I had considered that. But while I will try not to insult your intelligence - don’t insult my reflexes. You don’t have a hope of getting my gun into that ocean.”

“I suppose…” Quint grinned a little. “Though I could always ask Sam to dose you with painkillers…”

The chuckling continued, even though it had to hurt a bit, after Bond slipped the gun back into its holster and favored Quint with a narrow-eyed but pleased sort of look. “You know, your file never said you were devious,” he joked, then made a face and added, “Although Sam and her painkillers sound awfully nice right now. Actually, a distraction in general would be nice, but I think I’ve had quite enough of that.” He sighed, looking a bit tired as the humor faded. “Time to focus on the job, eh?”

Quint shrugged. “I’ll bet if you asked nicely, she’d give you some…. Although I still say you’re a bloody idiot for getting hurt… Again.”

Pushing himself to his feet, Bond reached over, perhaps meaning to ruffle Q’s hair annoyingly but instead sort of just running his hand through it instead - smoothing instead of putting it in disarray. A crooked smile was on his face as he snickered, “You’re hilarious, Q. You’re talking to a 00-agent. I get hurt _again_ pretty much every other day of the week. It’s in the job description, right after the part where we have a hard time killing adorable little boffins like yourself.”

Quint raised an eyebrow at him, but got up to follow. There were things to do, but first… Breakfast sounded really good.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Qs motives finally, finally, get revealed. What do you think?
> 
> I might have to go over this tomorrow and beta it, because today I celebrate Sinterklaas with my family, which means I have very, very little time. In fact, you almost didn't get a chapter at all today!


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Q makes his demands, Bond is Bond, Sam isn't just wanted for her frankly amazing body and plans are made... Not that everyone agrees on that last point...

_Chapter 17_

The walk back to the camp was surprisingly relaxed. Probably because, for once, Bond wasn’t toying with the pros and cons of killing someone he honestly didn’t feel that much like killing at all. It had felt… like finally being able to breathe when he’d demanded Q look him in the eyes and tell him the truth, and Q had said he wasn’t responsible. Granted, Q had looked ready to murder him at that point, but looks like that were bread and butter to a 00-agent, so Bond accepted it philosophically. Also, at that point, he’d been ready to swallow lies if only it meant he wouldn’t feel so torn anymore.

Sometimes, having a steady lie as a lifeboat to hang onto was better than being tossed amidst a sea of uncertain truths.

‘ _And what if Q_ had _lied to you_?’ a sensible part of Bond demanded sharply. Somehow, the furious tone couldn’t reach the surface, and Bond’s relaxed pace remained at ease as he occasionally brushed sleeves with the slim hacker next to him. ‘ _Then I’m committed to that lie_ ,’ he replied to his own inner self with a mental shrug, with the same calm acceptance that he had when MI6 handed him a gun and told him where to shoot it but didn’t tell him why. His mind had been trained for orders and simplicity, and right now he felt like he had that, as wrong as it all might be. Glancing at Q and remembering his righteous indignation and painful shock, he was pretty sure that nothing of what had been said in the past few minutes had been lies.

If anyone were watching and knew him well enough, they’d note that there was an increased ease to 007’s step that hadn’t been there before, as they moved up the sand and back to the other survivors of the crash.

Tension inevitably returned, however. Bond’s spectacular fight with Silva the night before had obviously gotten around to the few people who hadn’t seen or heard the violence of the night before. Uneasy looks and outright glares turned Bond’s way, and he felt the muscles between his shoulder-blades tightening and his expression turning aloof, watchful, and cold. “Maybe,” he said to Q with completely false lightness, as if he were remarking on the weather even though his blue eyes were like chips of glass as they watched the people nearby, “you should have taken my gun after all.”

Quint looked first at Bond, then he followed his look to the people they passed on the beach. He shrugged. “It’ll blow over,” he said reassuringly. “We’ll get it sorted out. I do have one demand, though…”

That managed to distract Bond more than anything, and he looked amusingly perplexed as his blonde head - damn it, still dappled with blood - turned to Q. The unspoken question was in his eyes as one eyebrow tipped upwards.

“We leave the teens out of this. I’ll tell them they can stop looking for the laptop, make up an excuse or something, but… I don’t want them involved. Not if Silva is capable of things like that.” He looked sideways at Bond, trying to gouge his reaction.

The look he got back was thoughtful at first, then impressed before the agent went back to surveying the people around him. Unconsciously, it seemed, Bond was sticking close to him, although precisely why was a mystery: Quint certainly wasn’t built or trained to protect him, and even injured, it would probably take two or three disgruntled passengers to slow Bond down. When Bond slipped back a pace to fall into step just slightly back and to Q’s right, it became evident that 007 was trying another trick - so long as it seemed he was deferring to Q, or at least following his lead, people would be less likely to see him as a threat. All 00-agents had an exquisite amount of practice at making themselves appear both more and _less_ threatening than they were. Only then did Bond nod to Q’s demand, still moving close enough to brush against the smaller man every other step. “I’m all for limiting Silva’s contact with anyone he’s already shown a predilection for attacking,” he said with a low growl of controlled hatred, then flashed a humorless grin, “Myself excluded. How about Sam? She’s quick enough that any excuse you _or_ I think up won’t hold her back, and we can’t order her around like you can your minions. Assuming, of course, anyone can even order around your little pack of brats.”

Quint looked thoughtful for a moment. “I suppose… We could tell Sam. She’s pretty level-headed, and even if things happen…” He looked away. “I want her to know so she can keep everyone else safe.”

Bond’s elbow nudged Q’s, and it was impossible to tell if it was an accident or a form of support. He was nodding again, a noise of agreement in his throat. “And me?” he asked, again with that lightness of tone that didn’t reach his eyes, “Do we want to tell her that the mild-mannered chef she adores so much is actually an MI6 lackey?”

Quint shrugged, stealing another glance at Bond. “If _I_ figured out that there was no way you were just a ‘mild-mannered chef’, she probably didn’t buy it from the very start. She’s smart like that,” Quint said with a small smile. The sarcasm over the words ‘mild-mannered chef’ was palpable though.

“It’s a bit hard to act that part when I’ve got a head injury!” Bond defended himself, even putting a bit of a whining tone to his voice as he once again stopped eyeing people long enough to shoot Q a pleading sort of look - a look very much ruined by the impish grin pulling up one corner of his mouth. The man was far too charismatic and generally impish to pull off the innocent-face at the moment - but he hardly looked to be trying. This was proven a moment later as he sobered slightly, sighing and admitting, “My subterfuge has been a bit lackluster anyway. I actually said I was a chef as a joke, because…” He cut off sharply. It had been because he hadn’t expected Q to be alive long enough for it to matter.

Quint laughed, seeming not to notice his slip. “So that means you want to tell Sam? We’ll have to get her alone, preferably far away from her patients as well… I mean, they might _look_ like they’re out all the time, but…” He laughed. “They’re probably too glad for the amusement not to listen in to whatever goes on there.”

That look of dangerous mischief was back, and Bond leaned in against Q’s ear, all warm breath and amused words, “So do you want to get Sam alone, or do you want to distract the minions?” The words weren’t sexual in the slightest, but somehow Bond’s tone made them distracting…

Quint blushed and looked down. “I’m pretty sure we both know you should get her alone… Unless you’re afraid that that will be too… distracting?”

Bond’s chuckle wafted hot air against Q’s ear, but then the man was peeling away from his side with that little edge of a grin still firmly affixed to his face. “Oh, distracting is what I do best. I think I can manage. Meet me down by the water’s edge where I tried to give you a bath before.”

~*~

“Hello, Miss Sam” Bond greeted with polished politeness, appearing just behind her and surprising Sam with a practiced kiss to her cheek as he moved past.

She jumped but, despite the wary look she shot him when she jerked away, didn’t slap him. Sometimes miracles did happen. Eyes narrowed as she took in his inviting, warm smile and the slight bounce to his step, she replied slowly, “Hello to you, too, Bond. Something in particular you want? Or should it be obvious?”

“Can’t I just come and chat with my favorite doctor?” he asked, but he was still smiling like a rogue even as he leaned one shoulder against a nearby tree, crossing his arms with care for his splint.

“I’m the _only_ doctor here, and no, you can’t - at least not when you start the way you just did.” Her hand rose to touch her cheek, but even as she admonished him, she smiled, because the gesture had been sweet. Besides, it reminded her of just how good a kisser Bond was, and just how inviting he looked, standing with lazy grace in front of her. This time, however, she had patients within both hearing and seeing range, so she had to wonder just what Bond was up to. He was ignoring the sick and the wounded who were unabashedly staring at his performance, so Sam decided to play along. She put on a smile of her own. “But maybe, since you don’t seem to have re-broken your arm since I last saw you, I’ll make an exception. What did you want to chat about, Bond?”

Still pretending that no one was watching and eavesdropping on him (and there were at least three pairs of eyes that were more obvious than they realized), Bond shoved off the tree and approached again with the rolling gait of a big cat. Even though Sam was at least…eighty-five percent sure that he wasn’t just here for sexual reasons, it was still something to see. He breached her personal space to stand in front of her, looking down and seeming to consider her hair, touching one strand with the fingertips of his right hand. The left hand he was keeping out of sight. Sam’s face flashed with a scowl as she did catch sight of it, seeing the blood through the bandages a second before she looked up to see that he’d smeared some of that blood into his hair. _Seriously_ , of all the childish people she had to deal with…! Before she could forget her smile of a moment ago and go into a full-blown rant again, Bond distracted her with an impish kiss to her nose.

“How about I make it up to you? Somewhere more private.” All of the patients (who were obviously a shameless bunch, as they stared with delighted and/or blushing faces, a few checking out Bond’s ass openly) had given up on stealth now, one going as far as to give a delighted little gasp, but Sam was close enough to see that Bond was actually talking about the mess he’d made of his hand again. She gave him a teeny scowl, one just for him.

“When?” she asked, instead of asking him why he couldn’t just heal like a normal person.

The backs of his knuckles just brushed the inside of her left elbow in a relaxed, flirtatious motion that came disturbingly easy to him. His winning smile was just as natural, as it made laugh lines crinkle around his sharp, intense eyes. “Now.”

Sam was tempted to say, “Give me five minutes,” and scream at her patients that this was not some romance they were watching on the telly, but she figured Bond would find that too funny - or it would stroke his ego. Instead she nodded, even though her smile was very suspicious and a probably bit annoyed up close. “I’d like that. Lead on, James.”

He did, slipping past her with way more bodily contact than was strictly necessary, and caught her hand to drag her after him. One of the patients behind her had the audacity to wolf-whistle.

“Tell me, Bond,” Sam said too sweetly once they were finally out of earshot and just walking side-by-side, no longer touching. Her smile and expression promised doom. “What sort of romantic tryst do you have planned, exactly?”

“Well, considering that we’re actually sneaking away to meet up with a certain bespectacled boffin named Quint-” Bond replied, back to his normal tone and actions, sexual innuendo gone like it had never existed, “-It’s probably not going to be quite as romantic as you’re thinking.” Then he flashed her a grin that was all innuendo. “Unless you like threesomes, of course.”

At that exact moment, they reached Q’s hearing range, and Sam busted up laughing.

“Of course, I should’ve known… And here I was hoping you’d only want me for my frankly amazing body!”

“I thought women hated it when men just wanted them for their frankly amazing bodies,” Bond retorted, putting on a hurt, disgruntled tone, then lamented as they got closer to the third member of their party, “I’ve been going about life all wrong. How were the minions, Q?” His tone changed instantly when he turned to the younger man, losing the falseness so that Sam was actually a bit surprised at what she suspected might just be Bond’s real voice. The man wore masks and false reactions like a second skin most of the time, but now - it was all gone. Although the blonde man still looked quite relaxed, approaching Q.

Quint shrugged. “Excited about the prospect of building shelters. I think Hasan is sketching out two story buildings complete with plumbing and a rose garden by this point, and Ishya and Tara are making suggestions to make it all even more outrageous…” A soft smile crossed his face for a moment before focussing. “Either way, they’ll keep themselves busy for a while. Bond…?” He raised an eyebrow, obviously deferring to the older man.

“Our favourite doctor was stuck in the middle of patients.” He grinned wolfishly. “I got her away from them with minimal fuss.”

Sam shoved him. “Yes,” she agreed, then reminded him; “But you did it without explaining a bloody thing. And without giving me time to grab bandages for that hand of yours. Quint, did you see that he’s got blood in his _hair_?!” Her voice was rising again, and it was beginning to seem like a natural reaction between her and James - probably because he lived around her in a constant state of injury.

Quint looked down a little, not meeting either of their eyes, then turned to stare over the sea. “Just explain it to her, Bond…” he said, sounding weary.

Sam gave him a worried glance, before turning a piercing gaze to Bond. “Explain what, exactly?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

At long last, he sobered, the skin around his eyes tightening as the urge to fidget and move grew like an energy beneath his skin. He refused to pace again, however, and instead stuck his hands into his pockets and began to explain. Shockingly, he left nothing out, telling Sam every detail in the same level, calm voice - everything from his MI6 designation, to his orders to kill Q, to his suspicions about Silva.

He only started lying when he got to Q.

It was unexpected and odd, the way he started skirting around the information, inflection and expression unwavering so that Sam wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. This was the true liar on display - all of his playful lying about being a chef or sleepwalking was just a fraction of his skill, but only now did he decide to use it to its full potential. He informed Sam that MI6 had been mistaken about Q, sending Bond out in error, but that they still very much needed to get Q’s laptop if they wanted to get off the island. Any information regarding Q letting a more dangerous hacker into MI6 systems to steal the list of undercover agents was smoothed over and utterly hidden, all without Bond blinking.

Quint had turned back to him when he started explaining, and his expression had turned from weary to scared to resigned at the amount of detail Bond was putting in, only to go through surprise and doubt and slight relief when Bond… didn’t. Sam missed it, luckily, because her attention was completely focussed on Bond, eyes widening as he got further into the story. When Bond finished, a laugh escaped her. “Well, that explains a thing or two about your pain-tolerance, at least,” she said, tone wry but something like excitement in her eyes. “So in addition to a ship-wreck and a bad rom-com, we’re also doing a spy-novel now?” she asked, eyes twinkling.

With Bond’s back mostly to Q, it was easy to see the way his shoulders relaxed, muscles loosening like clenched fists might. The smile that flickered across the agent’s face was amused and warm, but there was probably surprise somewhere underneath it - not that he’d ever admit that. He pulled his left hand out of his pocket to flex it distractedly against the stained bandages. “So does that mean you’re willing to help us?” he asked. “Because, like Q here, I happen to adore you for more than your amazing body, and was hoping you could work with us on getting Silva.”

“So… how does Silva figure in to this, exactly?” she asked, her expression mildly curious, but her eyes sharp as she looked between the two men in front of her.

“Evil bastard, so far as I can tell. He also seems to know that I’m MI6,” Bond shrugged, then admitted without any particular hesitancy, “Plus, since I’ve been digging through everyone’s things and didn’t find Q’s laptop - and we haven’t been able to find Silva either - there are just too many coincidences piling up. That, and I want to pay him back for nearly breaking my nose.” The last was probably Bond’s polite way of saying ‘ _I just want to kill him_ ,’ because an almost-broken nose should have been a walk in the park for a man as injured as Bond already was. He was smiling that humorless smile again that would have fit better on a large predator.

Sam gave him a sceptical look, telling him in no uncertain terms that she knew there was more going on, but was willing to let it slide for now. “So if I understand you correctly, Silva is somewhere on the island, probably in the jungle, with Q’s laptop, and our best chance of getting _off_ this island is in getting that laptop. Lovely…”

“Needless to say,” 007 shrugged, “the sooner we fix this problem, the better. My plan is to just go into the jungle and shoot anything that looks like him, but I’m fairly certain that Q is going to shoot that plan out of the air. The second idea I’ve got is using Q as bait.” The agent’s mouth curled up at one side to show that he was joking, although the idea still amused him far more than would be normal for a decent person.

Quint, however, gave him a speculative look. “That…sounds like it could actually work.” He lapsed into silence, expression contemplative.

Both Sam and Bond looked at him in alarm, because both of them, at least, had been aware that Bond was in no way serious in his suggestion. Now it looked like the agent might actually be regretting opening his mouth.

“Quint, you do realise he was joking, don’t you?” There was an urgency to Sam’s voice that Bond hadn’t heard from her yet. “Here is a possibly homicidal maniac who has it out for you, and you want to put yourself up as _bait_? Bond, tell him how bad an idea this is!”

The agent hadn’t moved since Q had opened his mouth, but was definitely paying attention to him now. In fact, it looked like the agent was frozen in place, but there was something faintly homicidal in his features as well - as if he’d been locked down in ice. He was drilling his eyes into Q’s head as if wondering whether Q had lost his mind altogether. “She’s right, Q,” he finally said with far more softness than his gaze had been hinting at. It looked like it was taking a monumental effort to stay still, however - so much so that the energy was almost like an undercurrent around him. “If someone has to play bait, let it be me - but not you.” He shook his head, never breaking eye-contact. His tone was as serious as either Sam or Q had ever heard it.

When Quint looked up, it was with surprising fierceness. “You are an idiot. You both are. If you were to be bait, than who is supposed to be the trap? Me? Sam? Have you seen that man fight, Bond? Let’s be realistic here: Neither of us is able to take that man down. You, however, have a chance. At least, you do if you give yourself a little more time to heal and have the element of surprise on your side.” His face had gained a calculating look, his mind foregoing any emotion in favour of strategic thinking. “No. I’m the bait. Chances are that Silva is either hiding in the jungle, or on the beach on the other side of the island. The jungle seems more likely as I don’t think he would go that far away. He seems to enjoy seeing us flail, let’s give him something to look at. Bond, you and me are going to have arguments. Loudly and articulately. Right by the jungle’s edge. Maybe a little ways into the jungle. Possibly several times over the next day or two. By the end of one of these arguments, I will storm off into the jungle. I will take the path to the water, as this is most familiar and you, Bond, are familiar with the lay of the land there. Also, Silva will need water himself. I will mope around by the source, maybe grumble about you. Make enough noise to be heard. It shouldn’t be too hard. Silva will think me alone. When he comes out, you take him out. If there’s no sign of my laptop, we make him take us to it.” He looked between the two of them, determined. “Sam, I need you to keep the other passengers off our backs while we do this. Especially the kids. I do _not_ want them involved.”

Bond was still tangled up somewhere closer to the beginning of the plan, and was seething more and more by the second. He was also stalking forward, decreasing the distance between himself and Q while his body wound itself taught. “You ask me if I’ve seen Silva fight - have _you_ , Q?” he snarled quietly, but before it could be taken as an insult, Bond was finishing his argument, and the tone changed to something more torn beneath the anger, “What happens if I’m not fast enough, Q? What happens if Silva is ahead of us?” The agent’s hand came up - a slow, gentle motion to pantomime a violent one as it rested around the side of Q’s neck, thumbing his pulse softly. “Killing takes seconds, and Silva’s only got one cut on him to slow him down. And what you didn’t see is that I nearly _lost_ my fight with him.” Bond shut up again with his jaw clenched tightly but hand still circled around one half of Q’s throat; there was no hint of pressure, just presence.

Quint stared at him levelly, ignoring the hand on his neck.. “I have seen the consequences of a fight with him. This is the exact reason why I do not think either Sam _or_ me will be able to take him, not in any way or shape. You, Bond, have training and a gun. If we draw it out a few days and you actually rest enough to _let yourself heal_ , you might have a chance. If I saw a different approach that was in any way sensible or functional, I would take it. If we come up with a better plan over the next two days, we take it. For now, it’s the best plan we have.”

Sam looked between the two men, face now taking on a considering look on her own. The logic of the plan seemed to be warring with her instinct to protect the younger man, but the logic was obviously winning. That did not mean she was happy with it.

Bond looked ready to keep arguing, and there was, in fact, an actual growl bubbling steadily up his throat. All he said, however, was, “I hate this plan,” without blinking. Then he finally turned his head away with a sigh, visibly giving in. “But I don’t have a better one. Do you even know any self-defense?” he asked in exasperation. He’d once again forgotten what his hand was doing, and he was spreading blood on Q’s shirt - this time as his fingertips played with his collar in an absent, fretful series of movements.

Quint shook his head. “I don’t. You can instruct me, but only if you stay physically out of it. I am counting on you to be fit enough to back me up, Bond, and that means you will stay still and _heal_.” When he met Bond’s eyes, there was fierce determination in his eyes. His gaze turned contemplative for a second, then he huffed a small laugh. “You can play it off as if you’re teaching self-defence to the kids. With Silva out there, they could do with some training of their own…”

With a huff, Bond finally dropped his hand, pacing with them at his side instead. He was a mass of restless energy, and no one spoke for a minute as if waiting to see if he’d just explode. Finally he just stopped, back to Q once more, and shot a weary look Sam’s way before sighing, “I guess you’d better change the bandage on this then before I ruin another of Q’s shirts.”

~*~


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Quint wishes a career as a hermit were a viable option, self-defense happens, Bond doesn't really do 'hands off' and Quint's superpower might just be his fearsome glare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am _so_ sorry I did't post this on time. I'll try to do better next time?

Quint sat silently, half hidden between the rock formation and the surf. Barring him ignoring his own rules, this was the closest to time alone he was likely to get these next two days... And he most definitely needed some time alone right about now. Time to deal with the things that had happened these last few days and were still happening. He sighed, sticking one bare toe into the surf. The cold seawater was a welcome point of contrast after the hot sand. An anchor to keep him from being set adrift in his whirling mind.

Everything was just happening so bloody fast, a rollercoaster ride of emotions and feelings, the situation around him changing within the span of seconds. To someone like Quint, who needed time away from people, time to reflect and think and put everything in its proper place, it was exhausting. This day alone…

He marveled at how much could happen in so short a time-span. He sighed as he thought back to this morning, how he’d woken up to what seemed to be a silent understanding between himself and Bond. Something about that had made him feel happy and at ease with the world in a way that little else had, about this whole situation.

He pulled his legs up to his chest, wound his arms around them, and rested his chin on top of his knees, eyes unerringly finding the airplane in the distance.

He’d been so very stupid. Not only to think that someone as handsome and social and strong as Bond could fancy someone like Quint, all broken glasses, gangly limbs, and scarecrow hair, but even more so to think that they had some sort of special… connection. Bond had simply been doing his job, getting close so he could figure out what made Quint tick and to get the information. And he’d fallen for it, hook, line, and sinker.

He sighed. How bloody stupid was he, that it’d taken seeing Bond kiss Sam for him to realise his own developing feelings for the man? Bond was just Quint’s type after all; Smart, snarky, handsome, strong, and utterly, completely unattainable. Also, most probably, straight. He sighed. At least Bond had chosen Sam. Of all the people on the island, Sam was probably the most deserving of his attention… And the most likely to call him on his shit.

The last thought brought a smile on his face. He’d deal, though. Two days before they could put their plan in effect, to allow Bond to heal enough. Only two days. He could do that. Just ignore Bond and Sam flirting, ignore the secret touches they were bound sneak and then he’d have his laptop back, could hack his way off this bloody island, and he’d see neither of them again.

Much as he hated that thought, it was for the best. Even if Bond or MI6 wouldn’t prosecute him for what he’d done, he would be known. No longer able to operate under the radar. A hacker who couldn’t do that was a useless hacker. He’d have no option but to disappear… And he could disappear, no problem there. Erase every bit of data anyone had on Quint Locke, create a new identity. Become someone new somewhere new. It wasn’t as if there would be many people to mourn him, outside of the hacker-community… And they were used to it. People appeared and disappeared all the time.

Laughter broke him out of his morose thoughts. He looked up to see Monique run into the surf, her two girls trying to tackle her. She allowed herself to be tackled into the waves, and the three of them splattered around for a while until one of them called ‘castle!’ and ran right back out, grabbing hands full of mud and depositing it in the softer sand. Her mother and sister followed and they started building a…

Quint sighed, burrowing his face in the back of his legs. A sandcastle, of course. That just figured. He thought back to the ridiculous conversation that he’d had with Bond the night before, a conversation that made so much more sense now that he knew what he knew about Bond. It was truly embarrassing, how he’d gone on and on. He’d thought he’d been helping, but… Well. Suffice to say he’d been a right idiot about that, too.

He scraped his mind for another subject to think over, but everything he could come up with led right back to Bond. How nice he was to the teens, whom he seemed to genuinely like, at least, and how close he’d become with Sam in such a short time. How he’d been the only one who was as completely distrustful of Silva from the very start as Quint had been, more so even. How he was the one to figure out Silva was the one to have taken Quint’s laptop…

Quint mused idly of whether Silva had been trying to crack the security yet. He was fairly sure he must’ve. He’d designed the security systems himself though. Unless Silva was a lot more competent than he seemed though, Quint could say with near absolute certainly that the content of his laptop was safe. With a shock, he realised he’d thought of Silverfish’ skill-level when estimating Silva’s. It was… Tempting. If Silva and Silverfish were the same person, a lot of things would make sense, and Silva would be truly and without a doubt evil. It was also completely silly. Why in the world would Silverfish be on the plane with him?

He just hoped that Silva hadn’t run the battery down trying… That said, Quint could probably cobble together an emergency supply from his adaptor and whatever batteries and battery-run equipment he could scavenge. Hacking might be his primary skillset, but he was no slouch when it came to designing and constructing things either…

He allowed his mind to be pulled back to the hackerspace a couple of blocks from his apartment in London. To the little half-constructed, half-sentient teakettle he had waiting for him there. He wondered if MI6 had already found that place and taken the poor thing, or if he could swing by and pick it up before moving.

Shying away from that thought as well, he started going over the design and programming, trying to figure out ways to improve upon it. The idea was to create a robot-kettle that would prepare his tea for him… And prepare it exactly the way he liked it, something no machine had ever managed.

~*~

Quint jumped a mile high when there was suddenly a hand on his shoulder. “Boss, the Doc and Bond want you… I think they’re going to go bonkers if you don’t turn up soon.”

He looked up and right into the face of a smirking Tara. He smiled at her, feeling a lot lighter and more relaxed now that he’d had some much-needed alone-time. “Of course they do. No rest for the wicked, is there?”

Tara laughed. “’Fraid not. What were you doing there?”

Quint shrugged. “Waiting for my sonic screwdriver to finish the calculations necessary to disintegrate wood.” He said, hiding the smirk that wanted to break out on his face.

Tara stared at him.

“It’s from a show called Doctor Who… If we ever get off this island, you should watch it. I think you’d like it.”

Tara rolled her eyes. “You, too? Hasan’s been on my ass about that show for ages as well…” She gave him a smirk of her own and then sticking out her hand to him. “Now come on, Boss, before the Doc and Bond blow themselves up with worry. Or each other, more likely.”

Quint smiled at her and held out his hand for her to pull him up. “He’s got good taste then,” was all he said as the two of them walked back to the encampment side by side.

“Quint! Where were you? We couldn’t find you anywhere!”

Quint shrugged at Sam, making a vague gesture to the shore. “I just needed some time alone to think all this over. Figured you and Bond could use some time of your own as well. It seems the world hasn’t imploded in my absence?”

Sam rolled her eyes. “It was a close thing, but we managed. Next time, would you just tell someone?”

Quint shrugged. “Knowing you lot, someone would’ve followed me, insisted on being there. That rather beats the point of alone-time, don’t you think?”

Sam gave him a sympathetic look. “Then just tell me. I’ll keep the raving hordes off your back, you know?”

He looked down, a little ashamed. “I know Sam… I suppose I’m just not used to dependable back-up like that?”

This seemed to satisfy her and she made a shoeing motion. “Alright, alright, now go. Find Bond. Man was just about frantic when he found out you were missing… Or as frantic as that man ever gets, I suppose. Either way, he was about to start those self-defence classes we were talking about, and I was looking forward to seeing people fall on their asses! Actually, my presence has been requested.” She rolled her eyes. “I’d hope it was to make sure he doesn’t go against your rules of not hurting himself in this little venture, but I’m afraid that’s idle hope, so we’d better get moving before he does.”

Quint saluted, grinning. “Yes ma’am!” he said, already walking off to where he’d just spotted Bond in the distance. Sam’s laughter followed him as he walked over the reassure the big idiot that he was, in fact, not a toddler not to be let out of sight.

~*~

The idea for self-defense classes went over well. Both the teens and the rest of the stranded passengers believed that the purpose of all this was just to keep the youngsters occupied and busy to prevent further tension, and Quint was around the teens enough that his presence wasn’t questioned either. Besides, everyone was still wary enough of Bond that they left them alone after staring for a bit, leaving James, Q, Sam, and the minions alone on their stretch beach.

The biggest shock was probably that Bond actually sat out most of it - although not all. The reason he’d called Sam in was because, somehow, he’d found out that she knew a bit of self-defense, too, having taken some classes. At first, she’d protested and said she couldn’t teach anything, but then Bond had reminded her that the other option was him getting involved, and she’d only just changed his bandages and convinced him to put his right arm back in a sling again. “You’re evil,” was all she’d said to that, with a narrow-eyed glare, but then had turned on one heel and clapped for everyone’s attention.

Bond was always there, sitting further up the beach with a faint quirk of a smile and his blue eyes alert, watching and often calling out instructions. Whatever training MI6 had given him had apparently allowed him to correct people without anyone feeling too much like an idiot - except the time that Hasan tried to do something with his eyes closed and ended up on his butt in the sand. Bond had then told him quite openly that he was being an idiot, but everyone had laughed, Hasan included - although the foolishness had ended there. Bond hid the tension well, but it was obvious that this was a serious matter to him, especially whenever he saw Sam teaching Q a maneuver.

“Here.” Bond was pushing to his feet without any warning, coming instantly to Sam’s side where she’d been trying to show Q how to slip free of a hard grip on his arm. It had looked like the two were making progress, but not enough for Bond’s liking, apparently, as he approached to loom at Sam’s shoulder. The teens watched curiously while trying to appear inconspicuous. “You won’t be breaking a hold like that - not against Silva,” 007 shook his head, voice pitched so only Sam and Q heard. The agent’s voice was serious as he subtly moved Sam aside and took her place, ignoring Q’s protests completely. It was only then that Sam noticed that - once again - Bond had managed to dispose of his sling, and she started glancing around for it a bit hopelessly. Meanwhile, Bond locked his left hand around Q’s wrist in a slightly different hold. “There,” he said, expression still focused and very much in teaching-mode, “Try and slip free of that. This is more like a hold Silva would use.”

Q tried, using the technique Sam had taught them - carefully at first, mindful of the bandages wrapped around Bond’s hand, then more enthusiastically as he slender wrist remained trapped within 007’s fingers. Bond stopped him after a moment, raising an eyebrow that said, ‘See, that didn’t quite work, did it?’

“Wow, how come that didn’t work?” Raman finally trotted up to demand, poking his nose in close enough to nearly touch the locked wrists. “I got loose when the Doc taught me that break...”

“I…” Bond started, thinking a bit as his expression grew guarded. Finally, he just gave up and admitted vaguely, “I’ve got slightly different training from Sam. But I can show you how to break out of this, too.” It was unexpected, but Bond shot Q an apologetic look, as if feeling guilty that he might have embarrassed him in front of the teenagers (all of whom were now gathering around).

“Well, go on then, but remember, if you overstrain, I’ll sic Sam on you!” Quint said, trying not to show his amusement. Sam, picking up on this, tried to look her most threatening and failed spectacularly.

Rather obediently (considering his history), Bond backed off again, returning to sit where he had before. His eyes cut back and forth in small motions like a hawk’s, though, always watching everything. To the average observer, he watched the whole impromptu class equally, but to a keener eye it was clear that most of his focus was on Q. A few more times he’d rock to his feet, always in a swift-but-silent motion that meant no one ever saw him coming soon enough to actual scold him into stopping - the blonde-haired man was always standing right next to them by the time anyone noticed. It was bloody eerie, the way a man of that size could move and avoid notice on an otherwise-mostly-empty beach.

“Balance is off,” Bond grunted shortly, this time appearing right at Q’s back. The unfair part was that Raman - standing across from Q and playing the part of an opponent - should have warned him of the agent’s approach, but the kid honestly seemed surprised at his materialization as well. Raman had a hold of Q’s wrists, and it was Quint’s job right now to use his footing to pull the teenager off balance and throw him without being knocked to the ground himself. Now, he was faced with Bond very, very close behind him, bracing his shoulders while using his toes to nudge Q’s feet into a slightly different position. Despite the fact that Bond’s heat at Q’s back was presently warmer even than the tropical sun, the larger man’s voice was focused and professional as he explained in brief sentences, “He’ll have you in the sand in a moment if you keep this up.”

“I... will?” Raman’s eyebrows jumped up, proving that this was news to him. He looked doubtful at first, and then a smile of growing, startled pride spread across his face, making him look downright smug. As always when Bond picked himself up off the sand and came over to them, the rest of the teens stopped what they were doing and began to unabashedly watch. An island unto himself, Bond ignored the attention, giving Q’s shoulder a light shove to make it easier to shift one of his feet to the side.

“Okay.” Bond moved back again.

Quint blushed a bit. He really hoped that everyone was attributing how red his face was to the fact that he was sunburned and warm from the sun and the exercise. Which it was. It really, definitely was. He tried to steady himself. He wasn’t doing badly, exactly, it was just that Bond seemed to be a lot more critical when it came to him than when it came to any of the others. He understood that, he did, but if Bond kept up the creeping up on him and the getting in his personal space and then touching him all the time… Well. He might need some alone time for a wholly different purpose before the day was over… And he sincerely doubted that he was going to get that chance. He sighed, pulled himself together and tried to make his stance more steady. “What now, oh grand master of Bond-fu?” So maybe he’d been steadily growing more sarcastic during the course of the lesson… No-one would notice, right?

Sam gave him a meaningful look and a smirk.

Right.

There was a low, rolling chuckle - still from behind him but with more space now, fortunately.  “Just cut the snark and try not to get thrown.  Raman, see if you can put Quint here in the sand,” Bond commanded quite congenially for someone basically ordering two people to spar with one another.  ‘Fight to the death’ might have sounded more appropriate, especially with the fervor Raman put into trying to do just that.

Quint found it difficult to concentrate with Bond right at his back and Sam wiggling her eyes at him. Before long, he ended up in the hot sand, glaring up at the bright blue sky and anyone who dared to come within his field of vision. Raman looked torn between proud, victorious, and apologetic.

Right on cue, Bond stepped forward, bypassing Q’s shoulder with unnecessary nearness, shoe almost brushing him.  “Okay, Raman.  Try me,” the larger man said, and it looked an awful lot like he was avenging the fallen boffin, what with the way he was now standing over Q’s sprawled right leg.  Granted, he looked very laid-back for being avenging: posture lax, smile easy, eyes half-lidded.  His hands were even in his pockets, and he was very carefully not making eye-contact with Sam.

“Bond,” Quint had sat up and was rolling his eyes. “Sit down. Raman, please don’t do that. He’s supposed to be healing, not showing off. Bond, tell me how to do this better.” The emphasis on the word tell made quite clear that Quint did, in fact, expect Bond to sit down and keep his hands to himself.

For a moment, the agent seemed sincerely perplexed that someone was stopping him, and canted his head back over his shoulder at Q as if contemplating whether to argue or relent.  Finally, though, he eased two steps to the right - moving himself out of the ‘field of play’, as it were. “Fine,” he said, almost graciously, “Stand up then. If you can listen as well as you can order-” He turned his head to hide the grin. “-Maybe I’ll even keep my hands to myself.”

Sam made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a guffaw choked in infancy.  She was holding a hand over her mouth as if pretending she was coughing.

Quint actually stopped to give both of them a Very Unimpressed Look in turn before standing back up and taking up his stance and allowing Raman to take back his arm. “Right, so how do I do this, Bond?” he asked, determinedly ignoring both of them and focussing back on Raman and the self-defence. The poor boy actually looked uncertain and he suppressed the urge to comfort him. It wouldn’t do any good.

Once again, there was Bond pressing personal space boundaries and nudging Q’s feet, murmuring as he did so, “Well, if you’d quit bloody shifting your feet, it would help. If you ever get into a fix like this, it will probably be against someone larger and stronger than you.” He gave Q a significant look, not needing to say it. In all honesty, Silva was built even larger than Bond, and definitely outstripped Q in the brawn department. Bond’s eyes went back to his work, checking the hold between Raman and Q, looking at footing as he circled. As if on a whim - or perhaps he noticed Raman’s unease, too - he reached out a hand and ruffled the teenagers hair until it stood up everywhere. He then pretended that he’d done no such thing, continuing his lecture without the slightest hitch in his tone, “So you won’t have strength on your side. You also won’t have speed, because your opponent already has you. What does that leave you?”

“Brains?” Quint said, looking at the hold Raman had on him skeptically, but actually seeming to consider this beyond an annoying but necessary exercise for the first time. “And I thought we were going to try for the non-hands-on approach?”

“I haven’t even touched you yet,” Bond grumbled back almost petulantly, utterly neglecting his ruffling of Raman’s hair. Raman, for his part, snickered slightly. “And nudging you with my toe is not going to impede my healing.” His steps took him full-circle, until he was at Q’s left elbow again, and this time there was a worrisomely enigmatic grin tugging at one side of his mouth. “Actually, you’ve got something better than brains. Care to make one more guess before we get on with this?” he asked in a low tone that was probably meant to sound patient but somehow just sounded somewhat suggestive instead.

Behind him, Quint could hear Sam muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like ‘amazing body’, but he ignored her and glared at the hold Raman had on him as he tried to think of what the hell Bond meant, all the while ignoring the man’s closeness and the urge to drag the man behind a tree and snog that stupid smug smile right off his face.

“His fearsome glare?” Sam suggested cheerfully behind him, “I’m pretty sure it could peel paint off walls, if not skin from bones…”

Quint really, really wished the whole world would just go and die. Or maybe that Silva would turn up and kill him instead, just so they could get this over with…

Apparently Sam’s answers were good enough, or else Q’s growing silent glare was good enough - because Bond stopped waiting for an answer and glanced one more time between Raman and Q. Then he leaned down to Q’s ear, so that his opponent wouldn’t hear: “Balance. Q. You win fights like this with balance.”

Quint shivered the slightest bit and felt his irritation dial up a notch at his own reaction. He didn’t know what Bond was trying to prove or achieve, but it was starting to seriously get on his nerves. He needed to be away from here, now. For his own sanity and that of everyone else.

With a power that stemmed from pure unadulterated bloody-mindedness more than anything, he planted his feet in the sand, took a hold of Raman’s wrist, ducked down, taking Raman with him and pulling the boy off-balance, before driving right into Raman’s direction, only redirecting himself past the boy at the last possible moment. With a dull thud and a small puff of sand, the boy landed on his back, staring up wide-eyed and with quite a bit of admiration at Quint.

Hasan started clapping. The girls fell in.

Quint stood behind Raman, further away from Bond and glaring at the man fiercely. “There, happy now?” he snapped, not really caring for his composure all that much at the moment.

For a moment, Bond’s eyes were unreadable, although he was definitely watching.  Those blue eyes were like chips of the sky, fixed on Q’s face, even as Bond dipped his head in a strange nod. His answer was pleasant to the passing ear, but Sam and Q had been around the man long enough to know that it was a shade of the real answer. “Almost,” was all the man said, before he fell back into his facade of relaxed friendliness and teased Raman about being beaten so deftly by Q. While the man continued after that to applaud Q for pulling a stunt like that out of his hat, that odd answer hung in the air like a stubborn tune.  

~*~


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sam and Bond have a Talk and we find out why Ishya is the most dangerous minion of them all.

The self-defence went on for only a little bit after that, on account of fading light and the ravenous nature of teenagers. Despite the fact that pretty much everyone was sandy and tired and bruised (except for Bond, which was a novelty), the teens chattered animatedly, absolutely buzzing with what they’d learned. In fact, they had so much energy still that Bond was baffled, and seriously considered working them harder next time just so that he’d have the satisfaction of seeing them exhausted for once.

Q was the real puzzle, though. This whole exercise was mostly for him, a fact that Bond couldn’t have lost sight of if he tried, but that didn’t mean he was any closer to figuring the hacker out. That little explosion of physical competence on the beach had been honestly remarkable, and under any other circumstances, Bond would have applauded the smaller man heartily. How was he supposed to say, though, that every time he looked at Q and watched him throw even an imaginary attacker, he imagined him under Silva’s hands, either with blood up and down his face or with the life being choked out of him?

Unsettled by those thoughts, swarming about his head like crows, Bond almost didn’t notice that they’d reached the main camp, where fires were already beating back the coming darkness. Sam had spread the word to keep an eye out for Silva, and although she’d also done her best to make everyone understand how dangerous Silva was without telling too much and getting people alarmed, it was clear that quite a few people still didn’t buy it. Obviously the suave, pale-haired man was missing - but it looked like opinions varied on why. Bond could see it in their eyes.

He shifted, his pace subtly slipping into that quiet step of a ready predator, not exactly nervous but definitely readying himself for trouble without thinking it. Really, he knew he only had himself to blame for the angry glares he was getting: he’d decided against his better judgment to walk around with a clearly visible firearm, had made meagre attempts at best to hide just how dangerous he was, and had honestly not cared about impressing anyone while he kept his focus on Q. It was really only an accident that he had as many friends as he had, and most of them were under the age of twenty and probably only liked him because he taught them how to trap each other with snares. Why the doctor liked him was anyone’s guess.

Right about now, it was pretty clear that no one else did. Everyone else seemed to be thinking that the last person to have contact with Silva was Bond, and Bond had tried to kill the man.

“Keep sharp,” was all he murmured, clearly distracted, his voice barely falling next to Q’s ear as he peeled away from the rest of the group. The teens barely noticed, still shoving at each other with youthful enthusiasm and reliving the day’s exploits, and besides - even the weakest of shadows were friends to a well-trained agent, and Bond slipped into them without much hesitation. Sam was watching him worriedly, eyes following his form in the dimness just outside the light of the fires, and Q had twitched at the low, edgy voice next to his ear. There was occasionally the faint gleam of his eyes turning, perpetually scanning - and often returning to Sam, Q, and the gaggle of teens. The man didn’t go far, but he definitely removed himself from the situation.

Alert as always - and a fair hand at reading people - Sam looked around the camp, catching the lingering expressions of dislike and distrust that had followed the man like blood in his footprints. “Bugger,” she murmured to herself, then tapped Tara’s shoulder. She gave her a smile. “Hey, sweetie, can you go check on my patients for me and make sure someone brought them food? I don’t want them to think I’ve forgotten them just because of this self-defence thing I’m doing.”

Tara blinked, a bit surprised at the job she was being trusted with, but then perked up. “Yeah, sure. Come on, Ishya!” She immediately dragged her compatriots into it, because no teenager worth their salt ever did a job by themselves. Sam smirked, having counted on that, and watched as multiple bowls of stew were collected by the teens, to be carted off to the sick. Sam turned next to Quint, a few paces ahead of her as they got their own meals from the rations that were still holding out. She caught his shoulder just long enough to nod into the shadows. “I’m going to go have a quick chat with your tall, blonde, and perpetually self-destructive friend. See you in the morning, Quint.”

The woman turned away and headed into the trees before the bespectacled young man could properly respond to the possessive ‘your’ in that sentence. She’d been tempted to say something more suggestive than ‘friend’ at the end, but figured that it had been a long - and obviously trying - day for Quint. The poor boy honestly just looked like he needed some food and some sleep, and maybe tonight he’d get it, before this Silva business reached a head. Besides, he’d be safe enough amidst the rest of the passengers. Bond was a different story, at the moment, although she worried more for his mind-set than his physical safety.

“I know you’re somewhere around here,” she called without really raising her voice, as she proceeded into the deeper shadows where she’d last seen Bond. She couldn’t see him now. “So you can either move… or make a noise… or something, or risk having me trip over you and spill this soup. We’re lucky the teens were all prepared for camping, or we wouldn’t even have bowls for soup to begin with.”

A shadow moved. Sam had to bite her lip hard not to scream, and very nearly dropped the soup, exactly as she’d threatened, even as a mass of darkness resolved into a head of short hair and eyes that glinted more like gunmetal than blue in the darkness. Bond clearly saw her near-accident, but the grin he cast in return lacked most of its humour; amusement had wandered off somewhere dark in his heart, and perhaps had gotten lost there in the past few minutes. “Better hand one of those to me, doctor,” he said like a perfect gentleman despite that, holding up a hand from where he was sitting at the base of a tree, “Can’t have good food go to waste.”

“Says the man who didn’t bother to get any,” Sam snorted, but nonetheless passed one bowl into his hand. Hers was actually a mug. No one was complaining about the hodge-podge mixture of eating equipment. Able to make out the man more easily in the darkness now, Sam settled down to sit against the tree next to him. For two people who had kissed so passionately only a day before, there was a lot of distance between them, but both were comfortable that way. “So what’s got that deep, pondering look on your face?” the woman asked as she sipped her soup. Spoons were even more scarce than bowls.

“Oh, just musing about the snares I still have set up further in the treeline,” Bond replied blithely - and obviously falsely. It was a game he played, though, a game that was more comfortable to him than his real thoughts right now as he watched the people around the fire, specifically one with dishelved dark hair and glasses. Bond infused a bit more malice into his voice as he added without hesitation, “Maybe Silva’s wasting away in one of them, and I don’t even know it yet.” He took a sip of his own soup, his appetite clearly unbothered by his bloodthirsty side.

For a while, they sat in silence, Sam pretending to accept that answer and Bond just eating with the swift efficiency of a man who has eaten many ‘last meals’ before, and knows that wasted time in anything can mean death. As he pondered the final pieces of mystery-mush at the bottom, he grumbled accusingly to the woman beside him, “Did Q send you to tell me I’m being ridiculous and to come back and play nice with everyone?”

Sam snickered, obviously finding that idea hilarious. “I imagine he’s a bit flummoxed as to why we’re both sitting out here in the dark, but no, he didn’t send me. And, for the record, I don’t think you ever play nice with _anyone_ , so I’m not going to drag you back,” she smirked, getting the last of bowl’s contents out with her fingertips and doing a pretty good job of ignoring how dirty her hands must already be.

Bond’s charming smile was back again, a slash in the shadows that made the dark look inviting. “I played quite nicely with you, as I recall,” he reminded with the edges of heat licking at his voice.

“None of that, you!” she warned, even though she was still smiling. She waved a hand as if to ward him off prematurely, and got an eye slanted in her direction for her troubles. Her smile softened and became a bit fond, but never lost the edge of exasperation. “I didn’t come to trade innuendos, and while I imagine you’re a _bloody_ good lay, my heart’s not really set on that either, no offense.”

Pleased despite being turned down, Bond smirked and settled back, putting his bowl down and just drawing up his knees to rest his arms on. He gave up chasing the doctor instantly, reaffirming her guess that the attempt had been reflexive and half-hearted despite how well Bond had delivered the suggestion. “Fair enough,” said the agent amiably, “Care to tell me why you _did_ come following me off into the dark?”

“Well, I considered cheering you up or something, and telling you that everyone there is an idiot for thinking you’re the enemy - that people are just scared, and scared people lash out without thinking.” She sighed, momentarily hating that trait in humanity. Subtly, she turned her eyes back to Bond, instantly seeing that his attention had swiftly turned from her back to the other passengers again - to Quint. Feeling a bit sly, but picking her way carefully, she folded her arms over her stomach and relaxed back, doing her best to copy Bond’s complete stillness before saying slowly, “But somehow I don’t think you’re worried about what the other passengers think of you. Not really.”

Blue eyes narrowed in the dark and Bond’s head turned to her, her words finally getting his attention back, albeit in a puzzled way. “What?” he demanded, not seeing where she was going with this and obviously hating it.

Sam merely raised one eyebrow and pointed towards the fires, stating bluntly, “You might be anxious about causing trouble with everyone else here, but your eyes haven’t left Quint for more than five seconds since I sat down - not even when you were flirting with me.”

The resulting exhale of air sounded more like a growl or a groan, and Bond indeed cast one more look back in the direction Sam was pointing - straight at Q, who was sitting down next to a mother and two little girls who seemed to know him, or at least recognize him. Their reactions were pleased and happy, but instead of being jealous of the warm reception, Bond felt satisfaction uncurl in his chest, a hot emotion of approval. And then he was imagining that shard of glass in Silva’s hand instead of his, and jamming itself up into Q’s vulnerable middle, eviscerating him for a slow death that Bond could do nothing about. Bond’s jaw tightened and the heat in his chest turned to something else entirely - something more ugly and painful until he had to turn away. He found Sam’s eyes waiting, worried but compassionate.

“He’s more breakable than he realizes,” was what Bond found himself saying, voice low and rough.

“Oh, I think he’s perfectly aware of how breakable he is - doubly so, after today’s lessons,” Sam interjected, not unkindly, although Bond still winced as if he’d done something wrong. Her sensible tone reminded him of M, but without the frozen, winter edge that came from dealing with MI6 and foolhardy agents for too long. “Don’t you think that the problem…” Now she was stepping out on a limb, but she was a canny woman, and had a keen eye for lots of things. “...Might be yours? That you care too much? I mean, aren’t good super-spies like yourself supposed to be detached and cold?”

Her words had been quite gentle, for all that they were blunt. She’d said the last sentence almost blandly, making light of a touchy subject so that the words barely stung by the time they reached Bond’s ears. His only response for a moment was to clench his jaw and rotate his right wrist slowly, testing the mending bone of his right arm. “We are,” he finally agreed quietly, but his eyes were glued on Q again - trying to puzzle him apart, trying to piece him together again. He added with something resembling more of his usual, wry humour, “Our targets are also supposed to be a little bit more dangerous-looking and a bit less adorable.”

“Oh, I imagine he’s a bit dangerous,” Sam argued in her best pondering voice.

Bond shot her a cautious, slightly disbelieving look. “Do tell,” he finally responded, and sat back with a ‘ _this ought to be good_ ’ expression resting on his features.

“Well, James, he’s got to be pretty dangerous if he’s got a 00-agent wrapped around his finger. Deny it all you want, but you’re the one who calls him adorable.” Before Bond could argue with her, Sam turned to him and sobered a bit, actually looking… perplexed. As if there was more to this than she’d figured out, too, as she studied Bond’s face in the darkness and chewed her words over carefully before laying them out, “He’s the only person you turn your back to. Do you know that?”

“I…” Bond opened his mouth to reply, looking a bit startled, but ultimately just closed it again, not having an answer. Finally, after a moment of proving that he clearly did _not_ know that he did that, the agent turned to stare back where Quint was with the most disgruntled of expressions. Ignoring the twinge from his right arm, he scrubbed his hand over his face with an exasperated sigh. “If you give me the ‘don’t touch my baby’ lecture, I’m not sure if I’ll laugh uproariously or throw my bowl at you,” Bond muttered with quite a lot of resignation in his tone, as he started to realize that maybe… just maybe… he _did_ act a little odd around Q. Precisely _why_ he acted off was something else entirely.

Sam responded by laughing, the sound rich in her throat. “Hey, I’m not his mother! That boy can do whatever - and _whomever-_ ” Her smile turned sly, and Bond pointedly refused to acknowledge her, but suddenly he couldn’t look at Q, either, “-he wants. But I don’t think he will.”

At that point, Sam was going to open her mouth and pretty much tattle on Quint like the meddler she was, pointing out that Q had self-esteem issues that would make it pretty difficult to ever make a move on a man like Bond. However, before she could say a word, James’s jaw clenched and the skin around his eyes tightened as if something had cut him, and then he was standing.

He spoke before she could, voice low and cold, as if he’d frosted the words over, “No, probably not, because I’ve quite outdone myself with scaring him away, haven’t I?” And before Sam could form a rebuttal for that - a probably imperfect rebuttal, because she didn’t even know how many times Bond had intimidated, scared, or just generally unsettled Quint - 007 was walking away, this time into darkness too deep to follow.

~*~

Sam sighed, but got up as well. She was just in time to catch Ishya, who was on her way to the fire to finally have some dinner of her own. She smiled at the girl. For all that she let Tara and the boys drag her along in their adventures gleefully, Ishya was always the one to patch things up, to smooth things over, Sam was pretty sure. She was also very sure that if Ishya wanted something, Ishya would get it, if only because none of the others could ever say ‘no’ to her. It was a good thing Ishya usually wanted things for the general good, and hadn’t realised the amount of power she could have over people, or she could be the dark overlord Bond accused Quint of being.

She was a lot like Quint in that sense, Sam mused. Quiet and reserved and generally willing to give up her own well-being for the sake of others, but despite or, more likely, because of that, when one of them talked, everyone fell quiet and listened.

“Ishya, dear,” she said, giving the girl a warm smile.

“Sam, is something wrong?”

She was also the only one of the odd quartet, the minions, as Bond had called them, not to buy into the whole nicknames thing… Even the ‘boss’ she used for Quint sounded a bit shaky at times. “No, don’t worry… But I was wondering if you could get Raman to make us a fire by your camp? I-” she balked for a moment, looking at the minion’s camp for an excuse and her eye fell on her ‘infirmary’ beyond it. “I’d like to be a little closer to my patients, if you don’t mind?”

Ishya nodded. “Of course! I’m sure Raman won’t mind! He really likes making those fires. Makes him feel like he’s useful, you know?” The last was said in a conspiratory tone, and made Sam smile.

“Well, everyone likes to feel needed, don’t they?” she asked, smiling.

Ishya nodded, happy that she’d been understood. “Right, I’ll go get him.”

Sam nodded, content. At least this way, Bond would have a place where he felt safe and Quint wouldn’t feel the need to keep up appearances the way she’d seen him do with the other passengers… And even the teenagers wouldn’t annoy anyone so much that they’d need keeping an eye on. In other words, at least Sam could have some peace and quiet of her own. She smirked. It was odd how she’d adopted this little family so easily. At home, she had friends and colleagues and a life too busy to let anyone else in so close… And wasn’t that just the perfect excuse?

It was… Nice, to have them to watch over, to take care of something more than just the physical needs of her patients. She hadn’t done that since… She shrugged and walked in the direction of her makeshift infirmary to see if her patients were all comfortable and if she wasn’t needed, making her rounds as she’d last done back when she hadn’t had a whole ward to run.

~*~


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they exchange stories by the fire.

The fire had been built up neatly and it wasn’t as large as the one further along the beach, but more than large enough to accommodate their little group. Quint let himself sink into the sand next to Sam. On the other side of the fire, the teens - his minions, Bond had said, he felt the corner of his mouth quirk involuntarily at the thought - were quibbling about something or other to do with the self-defence and Quint allowed himself to relax back and watch them.

They were smart kids, he thought, and good kids to boot. They’d get far in life. Now though, they were just kids on something that should be a holiday, but wasn’t… Except that they somehow made it seem like it was. Untouched by the worries of the adults in the camp and willing to take everything as it came, Quint found himself feeling most content when he was around them. They just made everything so much less _complicated_ than everyone else seemed to do.

Sam bumped his shoulder with hers, but didn’t say anything, happy to let him know she was there, but leave him to his thoughts otherwise. After a long while though, she spoke.

“I used to have a son, you know?” she said, eyes still trained at the antics of the kids on the other side of the fire. “He would be only a little younger than you are now, had he lived. I can only hope he would’ve grown up to be half the man you are today, but he is- was a good kid.”

Quint looked at her sideways, scrambling for something to say. She didn’t seem to need his input though, and he relaxed. She was looking at the teens, but her eyes were far away, reflexions of the fire playing in them as she watched something that was somewhere else and some time else entirely.

“He was only a little older than they are, when he- When he died. It was a car-crash. My husband was teaching him how to drive, but… Well,” she laughed a little, the humour in it tinged with bitterness. “Traffic in Delhi is not kind to anyone. He would’ve fitted in nicely with these four, I like to think. Brash and intelligent and with a mind of his own. Always getting in trouble for being on someone elses property, that one. He was too curious for his own good. I’d read him books, you know? His favourites were always the tales of explorers. Of people who travel to far lands and explore their foreign treasures. I imagine he’d be just like them, had he been here: This whole thing would be one big adventure to him, and he’d have known every corner of that jungle by now. ‘But māṁ,’ he’d say, “How can you just sit still when there’s still so much about the world we don’t know?’”

“Then he found out that while we’ve explored most of the land, we’ve charted only five percent of the seas and decided that he was going to be a deep-sea explorer. He’d spare up every rupee he could get his hands on and buy books and documentaries about it. I spread his ashes over the sea, you know? So that he could be there and explore even if his spirit was elsewhere. I guess… I guess part of me hopes that if his ashes is there, his spirit has been reincarnated in one of those amazingly strange creatures he loved so much. That he swims down there even now, exploring to his heart’s content and finding a new deep sea trench, a different little plant every time he beats his fins and that he never lost that sense of _wonder_ , that beautiful wonder that made him who he was…”

She smiled, falling silent as she stared into the fire. Quint wondered if he should wrap an arm around her shoulders. Finally, he settled for putting his hand on top of hers in the sand. Sam was strong for all of them… He was just happy that now she had Bond to be strong for her. She deserved it more than he did, anyway.

They sat in silence for a while longer. On the other side of the fire, the kids lay in the sand, talking softly among themselves, although he was fairly certain at least one or two of them had nodded off. Maybe today’s excitement had taken more energy than anyone had realised, after all.

He swallowed, thinking back to his own childhood. By the time he was there age, he’d already…

“I lost my parents when I was their age, a little younger, maybe. We’d just had a huge row. They found me kissing another boy, you see? It just wasn’t _done_ , really. What if anyone found out? I don’t think it was so much that they opposed, I don’t think, it was just… Well. In the circles I grew up in, appearances are everything and I honestly think they were more worried about my reputation, my future, than anything else. If they could find out, so would someone else, eventually.

“I was fifteen years old and very stupid though, and more stubborn than anyone really gave me credit for. Until then, I’d been their quiet, too intelligent model son who was only really interested in books and computers. I’d never had a dressing down like that before. And then, before any of it could be talked out, they were just… Gone. I was so… _angry_ ,” he said, sighing. “For a long, long time. The money they left me was more than enough to put me through school and university and set me up for life, but instead I refused to touch it from the moment I turned eighteen and got ownership of it. It’s still on some bank-account somewhere, I imagine, gathering interest. I left Cambridge the moment I was officially an adult and chose a life they can’t have approved of. I suppose I regret that, but… Well. I can’t regret it too much, either. It seemed the only option at the time, if I wanted to be who I was, with whom I wanted to be. No room for gay men in English society,” he sighed, a wry smile on his face. “It was only years later that I realised my parents knew that, and were trying to protect me, not condemning me as a person… It’s odd, thinking back like that, isn’t it? This island seems so far removed from everything else. It’s like a whole different dimension…”

Sam nodded, smiling sadly. “We all bring our baggage here, but it turns out to be different baggage than anyone expected, I’d wager…”

They fell silent for a while, looking at the fire and the little heap of gangly teenage limbs behind it.

“They’ve got the right of it,” Sam said finally, heaving herself upright. “I’m going to check on my patients one last time and then catch some shut-eye. You should do the same. Bond isn’t the only one who needs to have his strength when you two confront Silva the day after tomorrow…”

She gave him a kind smile and put a hand on his shoulder for a moment before walking away, disappearing in the direction of her infirmary to do her duty.

Quint sat at the fire for a while after though, telling himself he would go to bed in a minute, when his mind stopped running in circles, but never actually making a move towards getting up. After a little while, he spotted movement in the bundle of sleeping teenagers on the other side of the fire. Very carefully, Hasan extracted himself from his friends and circled the fire to sink into the sand on the same spot Sam had vacated.

They sat side by side quietly for a long while. Quint felt like he was waiting for something, like Hasan had something to say, but couldn’t quite say it. He didn’t know how to encourage the boy though, so he stayed silent instead.

“I heard you talk to the Doc,” he said finally. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he hurried to add, “But you were talking and I couldn’t quite sleep and-”

Quint shrugged. “It’s alright, I don’t mind. If I didn’t want anyone to hear, I would’ve gone somewhere else.”

Hasan nodded, seeming relieved. “I heard you tell her about- Well, about why your parents are angry and I- I-”

The boy stared hard at the fire, not meeting Quint’s eyes as Quint looked at him, something starting to dawn on him. Before he could figure out what to say though, Hasan continued speaking.

“I’m also like- like that, I think. I mean… I like girls, of course I like girls. I like Tara and Ishya and my sisters and- But it’s not like that, you see? I tried kissing a girl once, back home, but it was just sort of… Meh,” he shrugged, defeated. “The other boys are always talking about kissing girls and I just don’t care.”

Quint nodded. “But you do want to kiss other boys?”

Hasan nodded, his gaze flickering over to the other teens for a fraction of a second. “Yeah. I think so. Yes.” He looked unhappy. “But, you see, all that stuff you said about your parents being worried and not condemning you for you… I don’t know if my parents will do that. I never told anyone, see? Because if they knew, they would… would… I don’t know what they would do. But it all seems really far away now, and I think if you…”

He seemed to pull himself together, turned to Quint and looked him in the eyes for the first time, his young face hopeful and uncertain and heartbreakingly alone.

“If you can be gay, and you can still be you, then maybe I can still be me when I’m gay? And maybe they won’t mind so much either?”

It was a genuine question, one that required an answer, and Quint felt horribly out of his depth. At the same time, though, he couldn’t help but admire Hasan for his courage. He knew how much it must’ve taken for the boy to admit this. “I think your friends over there, at least, won’t judge if you tell them. And Sam or Bond won’t, either. If they do, if they get weird, you can tell me and I’ll talk with them? It usually helps,” Quint said, carefully. He resisted the urge to wrap an arm around someone’s shoulders for the second time that evening. “And if you need someone to talk to, you can always talk to me. We’ll exchange emails, if we ever get off this island… How does that sound?”

Hasan nodded, happily. “That would help, I think. My parents… They’re muslim. The imam says homosexuality is a sin, but I looked it up on the internet. There are a lot of muslim who are gay and say that it should be allowed for two men to be together. It’s really confusing.”

This, Quint knew the answer to, as far as it pertained to christianity at least. He was going to assume that it also worked for the Koran. “Religion can be very different for different people, even if it’s based on the same book,” he said softly. “These books, the Koran, the Bible, they were written thousands of years ago by people who had different ways of life and different ideas of what a good life is. Now, people read these books, translations of translations of translations, and interpret them in the way that fits their way of life. We can’t know exactly what the writers meant, or if they would think differently if they lived now. Maybe you can help your parents see that, and if you can’t, find people who do see it that way where you’ll feel good. Who you’re attracted to isn’t who you are Hasan, it’s only a small part of it. You can be a good son, a good friend, a good Muslim and a good architect and still be gay without hiding it. It took me a long time to learn that. I hope you’ll be able to learn it a little sooner than I did…” He smiled. He himself was the one staring in the flames now.

Hasan, next to him, nodded. “That makes sense. I’m glad I met you, Quint. Thanks…”

Quint gave him a smile, honestly relieved that he seemed to have said the right thing. They sat together for a long while after, staring into the fire as the surf crashed behind them and the jungle ahead of them never went completely silent. The fire crackled peacefully and when it was burned down, they got up. It was unclear who decided to get up first, but they walked to their mattresses together and with a whispered “Good night,” both finally went to sleep.

~*~

Sam found Bond with her patients, which was really rather admirable - except she knew he wasn’t there to look after the sick so much as to prowl around where Q and the others were, while still remaining far enough away to be out of sight. She regarded him with hands on hips as they caught sight of each other, the man no doubt having seen her approach.

“For a 00-agent,” she said, after looking to see that there was no one to hear her, “You’re rather skittish. Did it ever cross your mind to go sit by the fire with Quint instead of…” She gestured vaguely towards him and the shadows that clung to him so easily - actually, it was eerie how well the man blended in, despite his pale-blue eyes and blonde hair. “...This?”

“Quint doesn’t need me distracting him or making him edgy,” Bond replied, in a voice that had just enough edge to warn Sam: ‘ _Back off_.’ It was the low rumble of a dog warding people off while things were still civil. “Besides, if we’re going to follow Quint’s plan to get Silva, I can’t very well seem chummy with Quint now, can I?”

Sam frowned at the slightly biting edge to his tone, but when she met his eyes, he didn’t look regretful - there was only more warning. ‘ _My teeth are already bared_ ,’ the look said, with the anticipant readiness of any well-groomed predator, ‘ _Are you going to stretch your hand within reach_?’ Ever since learning that James Bond was actually with MI6 - one of their best and deadliest, in fact - Sam had mostly been acting the same, unable to completely process that fact while also dealing with the plane crash and her patients and the looming threat of Silva. There were times, however, where it was clear just what Bond was. Times like now. She shivered a little, and spared a moment to calculate just how tense the agent must be: injured, on an island with a man he’d already fought with once, and now dealing with using Quint as bait. Being shown that he just might be a bit tangled up in Quint obviously wasn’t doing anything to ease Bond’s mind, and Sam found herself holding her breath as the agent eyed her like a stranger would.

Finally, though, he took in a purposeful breath, closed his eyes, and almost visibly counted to ten. “Sorry,” he muttered shortly, sounding only partially apologetic, mostly just terse. “I’ll talk to him. I have a few things that he’ll want to know anyway, but I’ll wait until it won’t draw attention. Just in case Silva’s near enough to watch.”

“Okay,” was all Sam said, all the while resisting the urge to ask just how many times Bond had circled the area preventing just such a thing from happening. She’d prodded the man more than enough for one evening, however, and very carefully walked around him to her patients with a soft, “Goodnight, James.”

His voice drifted back to her, just a few degrees warmer as if he were making an effort to curb his mood, “Good night, doctor.”

“Are you really going to talk to Quint?” she couldn’t help but look over her shoulder and ask. Bond was already almost lost in the nighttime shadows, the distant moon just picking out a few spikes of his hair.

“Yes,” was all he’d say, in a tone that gave away nothing.

~^~

There was a hand over Q’s mouth, another over his wrists, making a decent struggle useless. “Wake up, Q,” commanded a low, rough voice.

Quint tensed up completely, his head going over the facts in lightening speed. It was dark around him. He was on an air mattress. His air mattress on the island. Someone was holding him down, keeping him from screaming. A man. Big. Powerful. Silva!

His eyes snapped open, but in the pitch black darkness, without his glasses, he couldn’t see more than a vague outline. Big and bulky and much stronger than he could ever hope to be. He flashed back to the self-defence he’d been taught for just such an occasion, but dismissed it as out of hand. There was no way he could do anything now. Bugger.

He kept himself still.

It took a moment for it to register that the hand over his mouth was bandaged, and then the voice turned more to murmuring than demanding, “Nod if you can be _quiet_. And I swear, if you try and elbow me, Q, we’re going to have a misunderstanding.” Bond’s voice was only slightly irritable, but mostly just far calmer than anyone’s voice had a right to be when they were scaring people half to death in the middle of the night.

Quint allowed himself to think some very dark thoughts about MI6 agents for a long moment, before nodding. As the hand let up he glared at Bond… or rather, in the general direction of where he thought Bond to be. “I should elbow you just for that stunt you pulled… I’m not willing to face Sam’s wrath, though, so for now you’re safe,” he hissed, low and quiet, but still vicious. His hand was already padding around for his glasses.

There was enough light from the sliver of the moon to make out Bond once Q’s glasses were on, although the agent was still painted in shades of silver-grey and charcoal black. He didn’t seem particularly troubled by Q’s tone, but instead was possessed of an oddly serious mood - the same one that had taken him occasionally when they’d been playing at self-defense earlier. “I’ve got something to show you,” the man said, settling on his haunches with his arms draped over his knees, now giving Q some room to move about properly without knocking into him. “Sorry about the wake-up call, but it was necessary.” It was just possible to see one eyebrow lift upwards as Bond noted, “You sleep like the dead right up until someone touches you.”

Quint hoisted himself upright and blinked at Bond, trying to tell his body that there was really no cause for adrenalin rushes and fight or flight responses. Nonetheless, he was tense and shaking the slightest bit with leftover adrenalin. “So I’ve been told…” He stood up. “Well then. What’s this thing that can’t wait ‘till morning?” he asked softly, trying to sound calm and collected and not scared or hyped on adrenalyn or annoyed or any such nonsense.

Bond must have approved of Q’s quick recovering, because his head dipped in a reflexive sort of nod. “I’ve got another self-defense move, but this one your minions didn’t need to learn. Besides, if Silva does have a place to watch us from, it would be best if he didn’t know anything either.” Bond smirked, just a little bit wolfishly. “I figure that you and I losing a few hours of sleep should be worth learning a trick that might keep you alive.”

Quint sighed and nodded, priding himself on how gracefully he was dealing with all of this. “So do you have a place in mind?” he asked, not even sounding that hostile for a man who’d just been woken up in the most rude way possible.

Bond just stood by way of answer, letting Q follow, although he didn’t go far - they were still on the sand of the beach, and could in fact still see the distant lumps of the sleeping teens. “All right, Q. Since we already know that Silva has a liking for choking people, we’re going to work on that - only…” He made a face, as if trying to think of the best way to put this without scaring Q off the idea. Finally, the man backed up a bit in his explanation, pointing out, “With that cut on his chest and no medical knowledge that we’re aware of, Silva might be wary of trying the same hold he used on Raman. You weren’t there for that, but it was a chokehold from behind - simple stuff.” The man shrugged, which was ludicrous, because choking someone should _not_ have been simple. “There are other ways, though, and I’m going to teach you how to hopefully get loose before you die. Following so far?”

Quint just looked at him, obviously unimpressed about something. Quite possibly the fact that they couldn’t have done this at some point where he was _not_ finally asleep, or because he felt Bond was insulting his intelligence… again.

Taking in the look, Bond met it with a glare of his own briefly, and then let out a heaving sigh and said, “Look, Q, you can either answer my questions or not - but despite how reckless I am with myself, I actually _do_ try and be careful with others. Right now, that means assuming you know fuck-all about self-defense. Later, when we get back to civilization and wifi, you can assume I know nothing about computers.” A ghost of a smile tried to make a place for itself on Bond’s face - a tiny olive-branch by 00-agent standards - as the larger man added in a more self-effacing tone, “You’re probably be correct, too. For now, though, can you just play along so I don’t accidentally hurt you?”

Quint sighed, deflating a little. “Sure, of course. Yes, I am following,” he said in a quiet voice, hesitated like he wanted to add something, but then decided not to and faced Bond more fully. “So what do you expect he _will_ do?”

“I’m going to show you. Lay on your back, Q.”

“On my-” Quint started, then stopped himself and instead lay down on his back, looking up at Bond suspiciously.

The man’s face was a mask - perhaps this was his way of dealing with Q’s unimpressed look earlier, or perhaps this was just the face he wore when he was being businesslike. At least he continued to explain as he moved. “We’re going to assume that Silva can knock you down and get you on your back-” Abruptly, he moved to straddle Q, dropping with easy, almost feline grace so that he was sitting across his waist with enough weight to make him nearly immovable already. “-How you end up here doesn’t matter. This is the second easiest way I know to choke an opponent besides coming up behind them and grabbing them.” Once again, he admitted to that easily, with nothing more than a shrug, eyes still cool and posture relaxed. “Still following, Q?” This time, it sounded like what he actually meant was, ‘ _Still okay, Q_?’

Q nodded, a little uneasy, but otherwise seeming to take all of it with an even keel. It seemed to be his way of doing things: he was perfectly calm and fine until suddenly he wasn’t. Bond was just happy that those moments usually seemed to take place after whatever it was that had him on edge was finished. Hopefully the calm would last a little longer…

Just blinking to acknowledge the nod and that Q wasn’t going to have a panic attack on him - at least not yet - Bond shifted his weight slightly on his knees, all of him perfectly controlled. The faint, grey lighting picked out the lines of his muscles, his broad shoulders beneath his rumpled shirt. “Easy, Q,” he said preemptively, and before Q could ask why, Bond leaned forward and circled both hands around Q’s throat like a collar.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is more self-defense, more angst as well as some flirting of the train-wreck variety

Quint had frozen where he lay in the sand, staring up at Bond and putting all his attention in simply not moving. Not showing anything.

Bond would _not_ hurt him, he told himself. More so, he was only doing this to protect Quint.

It didn’t help.

He was in the dark, alone, on his back, with a man more than twice his size and probably four times as strong as him moving in to strangle him. He couldn’t even see Bond’s face. No matter how much he might trust the man - and he did, for some insane reason he did - some primal part of him wanted to fight. Knee him in the balls, punch him in the nose, do whatever he could to get loose and _run_.

He curbed those instincts in relentlessly. Told himself over and over that it was Bond, just Bond, and Bond was only trying to help. If Quint wanted to keep this scenario from becoming a reality, he was so much better off with Bond than Silva over him. Bond, who might not care for him, exactly, but had a use for him and most certainly didn’t want to kill him, or worse… He almost shuddered at the thought of the uninvited touches of Silva’s hands, the unwanted intimacy of his words. The only reason he didn’t was that he was so focussed on controlling his reactions in the first place. It was so different from Bond, who, for all that his moods came and went faster and more erratically than rain in London, had at least proven that he’d do neither. Bond, who was teaching Quint to defend himself, not attacking him. Whose touches Quint might actually welcome if only Bond would be willing to give them…

None of Quint’s thought showed through on his face though, and he just lay there, staring up at Bond evenly. Almost expectantly.

Bond adjusted his grip just slightly - a subconscious motion rather than an admission that his original grip had been anything but perfectly and lethally effective - one thumb just brushing the underside of Quint’s jaw like an absent caress. “Good, Q,” he was free with his praise now, but his tone was too sincere to sound patronizing, “Just so you’re aware… Double-oh instincts mean that if you _do_ struggle, I’ll instinctively tighten my grip before loosening it. I promise, I won’t hurt you, but if you ever start squirming you’ll probably get a moment of tension before I realize what I’m doing and let up.” Bond had cocked his head and now even in the dark, it was easy to tell that Bond’s face was showing a rare apologetic expression.

Clearly wanting to get off the topic, Bond briefly looked away, staring at the ocean beyond Quint’s head for a second to collect himself. It was once again a calm, unflappable look that was directed down at the smaller man beneath him a moment later. “All right. In this position, you have a very limited number of options for escape. I’m sitting too far forward for you to kick or even knee me - you also have very little leverage for tossing me off, even if you were bigger. So you’re going to do this instead: lace your hands together.” He nodded downwards, where Quint’s hands were still tense and flat in the sand. “Lace them together into one fist as if you were going to punch me - although, for the record, that is _not_ what you’re going to do.” A cheeky grin followed that, lightening the mood slightly - perhaps only a secret agent could make light of a situation that included trapping a person’s neck in the ring of their hands. “This technique will give you better leverage than punching me, I promise.”

Quint looked up at Bond and then tried to look down at his hands, but stopped when it made the pressure on his neck more obvious. Slowly, aware of every moment, he did as he was told, thinking for a moment how much it resembled the folded position of the hands of a corpse before a funeral. He resolutely dismissed the thought and focussed back on Bond.

“Good, Q,” Bond repeated, then made a vague gesture with his chin that thankfully was accompanied by explanatory words, “Now, start lifting them upwards - as if to stretch them out over your head. Don’t unlock your hands, just push them up between my arms. Believe me, that will be enough pressure in the right places to get the job done.” Bond settled into silence to wait patiently.

Quint did as he was told, at first sceptical, but as he did it, it became obvious that he did, indeed, have a lot of leverage. The surprise when he managed to push back Bond’s arms showed clearly on his face.

As Quint’s arms moved, naturally forcing Bond’s outwards as they lifted, Bond held for a second - just long enough to give Quint and idea of what it would really be like, even if the agent were doing it unintentionally - and then his cracked right arm informed him that it didn’t like the outward pressure at all, and Bond let it buckle with a grimace. His less damaged left arm followed suit, so that by the time Quint’s arms were extended over his head, Bond was braced on his elbows in the sand, hands by Quint’s head and his mouth still twisted downwards in a wince from his right arm. “And that was why we’re doing this slowly,” he muttered ruefully to himself - or perhaps accusingly to his damaged limb, eyes clearly showing how much he hated not being able to do everything he was used to. This close, his breath blew strands of hair back from Quint’s forehead.

It took Quint a moment to collect himself enough from the shock of it actually working and the realisation that he was now free. The moment he realised that Bond was in pain his eyes widened and he tried to sit up, head knocking into Bond’s chin and falling back down instantly. “Are you- Did I hurt you? Are you alright? What-?”

Bond’s reply was a growl as he grimaced and clenched his jaw, and Quint got a glimpse of those instincts Bond had warned about as the man’s left hand lifted to splay against the upper right side of Quint’s chest, containing enough force to pin him to the sand while Bond shook off Q’s impromptu header. “I’m fine, Quint,” he grumbled, sounding irritated but, indeed, fine. He lightened his tone marginally as he gave his head a shake, “Well, that’s one way to get the job done. For the record, if you forget any of this, going for the eyes or what you just did works fine. I was going to show you something else, though.” Belatedly, he noted his hand, and stared at it for a moment before purposefully removing it from Quint’s chest and resuming his former position. His glare down at Q would have been more intimidating if it weren’t for the slightest bit of a smirk at one corner of his mouth.

It was that smirk that gave Quint the anchor he needed to resettle himself and find his balance. “Right, so how do I get out from under the big muscle-y man holding me down?” he asked, wry humour in place. Not a second later he realised just what he’d said though, and mentally smacked himself. Big muscle-y man? Really, Quint? Were you quite done? Did you want to add ‘handsome’ and ‘sexy’, perhaps? Honestly!

Blue eyes blinked at him, the color somehow evident despite the utter lack of lighting, and under other circumstances it might have been gratifying to see the larger man startled. Fortunately, the question hadn’t precisely been a declaration of love, so Bond merely smirked in return and gave his head a shake as if he’d never figure Quint out… and maybe was alright with that. “Save the cheek for when you’re free, Houdini. And if you headbutt me again just to be charming, I’ll show you just how big and ‘muscle-y’ I am.” Bond had to turn his head away for a second to hide how the smirk was stretching across his face, but the waft of air that might have been a chuckle still blew over the top of Quint’s head.

“Hmmm, now there’s an incentive…” Right, so he might be a tad bit manic. Just a bit. He wasn’t giggling yet. That was something. Bond wasn’t killing him, either. That was something else. “So what do I do, if not headbutt you?” he asked, trying desperately to sober up.

Bond looked like he was trying to do the same, but perhaps with more success: he’d almost pulled back on his calm mask, and gave one nod to accept the question. “Reach one hand and prop if under my chin, and the other around the back of my head. I told you before that balance and leverage will get you further than strength, and that’s pretty much true to the end of this lesson. You’ve watched enough bad television to see how a neck is broken, correct?”

Quint actually went as far as to bite his lip in order to keep the several snarky and flirty things in that wanted to escape. Instead, he took a moment to think clearly and logically about the things Bond was saying and teaching. “I suppose… Is that what you’re trying to teach me?” he finally managed.

“God, no,” was the instant reply, “ _That_ you don’t have the leverage for, thankfully. But an attacker will still have the choice of either giving way to the pressure or straining something in their neck.” Bond shifted his hand enough to flick Quint in the shoulder. “Come on. The sooner you do this, the sooner I figure out whether I’ve taught you right or if we have to start over with something else.” He narrowed and rolled his eyes, also adding, “Or we admit that I’m a bad teacher, and we move on from there.”

Quint rolled his eyes right back at him, but it seemed his mind had finally caught up to the proceedings to allow for his normal, thoughtful way of speaking to catch up. Again, he took a moment to consider everything, then gave a nod, as of to himself. While Bond, both trained and expecting the moment, caught it before it happened, Quint was still fast. With as much strength as his wiry frame and his position reaching up would allow, he did as Bond had told him.

It was something to see - and almost feel, at this close proximity - as the majority of Bond’s muscles locked up, his frame tensing in a reflexive fight-or-flight response. Considering that a secret agent’s response was usually closer to a shoot-it-or-maim-it response, Bond probably did quite well to not let his body react in any other way but to momentarily withstand the tension in his neck until it clearly became too much for his tastes. To relieve it, his only choice was to roll in the same direction his head was being turned, tensed jaw slipping free of Quint’s hold as the larger man twisted off him and onto the sand to Quint’s left. Grimacing again and rubbing at his neck ruefully, Bond commented, “In retrospect, perhaps I should have told you to do that more slowly on your first try.” Then he shrugged, not one to hold grudges against bodily harm - especially something as minor as this - and added, “Although this proves you’re at least proficient at this.”

Quint finally sat up, admittedly quite happy to have the freedom to do so. “Maybe next time tell me what you’re going to do and teach me beforehand altogether…” he said, the twist to his lips somewhere between wry and apologetic. “Are you alright? Should I do it slower every time, or just during practice?”

Still lying on his back - unlike Quint, Bond didn’t seem to find the position that vulnerable, or perhaps he was just at ease around Quint - Bond shook his head, saying instantly and quite clearly, “Never do it slow. And I’m fine.” Only then did he check both arms, and flash a surprised sort of smile as if he’d expected his last answer to actually be a lie, but unexpectedly found it true. “Congratulations,” he said as he sat up, sand clinging to his back and giving his shirt a different texture in the darkness. He gave his head a shake like a dog, dispelling it from his hair. “You just escaped your first double-oh agent.”

Quint gave him an answering smile for a moment, looking down on the other man now. “You just checked _after_ saying you were fine, didn’t you?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Bond stood, finishing in getting most of the sand off himself, and shot Quint an innocent grin that would have passed any stranger who didn’t know him very well. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Q.”

“Of course you don’t,” Quint replied, deadpan. “Same as you don’t remember your promise not to do anything to exacerbate your injuries and healing, I suppose?” He sighed, turning serious. “I swear Bond, if this little venture ends up straining any of them, I’ll…”

“You’ll do what?” Damn it, the man was in a playful mood now. The agent came to stand over Quint, no doubt purposefully placing himself so that their feet were nearly interlocked, ankles actually touching if the larger man ever shifted his weight. Quite possibly he was trying to tempt Quint to trip him, although the way the man kept himself evenly centered suggested that that wouldn’t end with triumph for Quint. The agent made a bit of a face as he suddenly guessed, “You’ll run to Sam, won’t you?”

Quint looked up at Bond evenly, meeting his eyes and refusing point blank to be intimidated by him. “No,” he said airily, “I’ll make you wait another day to confront Silva.” The gleam in his eye showed that he was decently sure he had won this round… and that he wasn’t afraid to make good on that threat, either.

Brows lowering over a suddenly irritated expression, Bond stared down at Quint as if wondering when the cute little kitten at his feet had turned into a viper. He scuffed one shoe, which perhaps was meant to be a small kick of irritance but instead just brushed his foot against Quint’s calf. “You know, I could grow to hate you.”

Quint raised an eyebrow at him, still sitting in the sand and looking up at Bond evenly. In a strange way, it almost felt like the fact that he did not get up to match Bond’s height and position made him the winner in a battle Bond hadn’t even been quite aware they’d been having.

Unexpectedly, Bond gave his shoulders a roll and then paced around beside Quint again, wearing an expression that could have been wry or perhaps rueful. “Whether you could stop me from going after Silva is still up for debate, but I’ll take it for now. On one condition.” He paused at Quint’s hip, looking down expectantly.

Quint just looked back up, seemingly comfortable in the sand now.

Bond grinned his most wolfish grin, the kind that usually pre-empted him detonating something he wasn’t supposed to. “On your back, Q.”

Quint had to work not to snort at that. For a moment, he contemplated ignoring the ridiculousness of that statement, but honestly… A man could only be expected to do so much, could he? “I must say, I don’t usually put out until the third date, but as I’m having a hard time figuring out what bits of the last few days should be defined as dates and what should not… What with you coming to sleep next to me every night - oh, I’m sorry, sleep _walking_ to me every night - well, we might just be past that point.” He raised his eyebrows sardonically.

One blonde eyebrow raised, but the darkness made it hard to make out the finer details of Bond’s expression - although the smile was still definitely there. His eyes hadn’t left Quint. “Is this your way of saying ‘Make me’? Because that’s definitely what I’m hearing,” Bond deviated slightly from the conversation, teasing but also holding that same smirk that meant he might very well be serious.

Quint raised his eyebrow challengingly, but in the same time something in his body-language changed to make him seem just the slightest bit closed. Like he was pulling back without actually pulling back. It took him just a beat too long to come up with a response. When it came out, it was a tad hesitant, like he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say himself. “I’d say it’s more of a way of saying ‘so if you have me on my back, what will you do with me?’, as well as ‘if you hurt yourself trying to get me on the ground, you know what will happen’ but I suppose you can be excused for not understanding…”

Bond’s head tilted, the expression probably more at home on a bird of prey because of its effortless intensity. However, the smile backed off a notch, without exactly fading. Bond dropped easily down onto his haunches. “I was actually just going to inform you that I had every intention of making you practice this until you could do it with your eyes closed,” he said, voice soft and musing. Unexpectedly, his hand moved out, and Bond watched the movements of his own fingertips as they found the collar of Quint’s shirt and played with it. A few times the blunt edges of his fingernails touched skin. He left his words hanging, eyes mild for once and no longer trying to peg Quint to the ground. Only a moment later did they flick up, watching for an answer. “I came out here because I wanted to make you as safe as I could, Q,” Bond explained without really explaining much at all, which was frustrating.

It looked like something clicked and Quint understood something, but the look lasted only a moment. Then Quint sighed, and let himself sink back into the sand. “Right, fair enough I suppose,” he said, twisting a little uneasily. “Can’t find Silverfish for you lot if I don’t get off this island alive… I get it. Let’s get on with it then, shall we?” he said, deliberately laying himself open for whatever Bond had in mind.

For the next hour - possibly more - Bond ran through the same exercise. When some cloud-cover rolled in, obscuring what little light they had, he just pointed out that Quint needed to be able to do this by instinct anyway, and insisted they keep going. The only concession he made to his injuries was that he let his right arm give up first whenever pressure was put against it, but he obviously didn’t like it, because Silva wouldn’t do the same.

No matter how often Quint lay back down and willingly allowed Bond to lean over him and take a hold that could cut off Quint’s air-supply with the slightest miscalculation, it didn’t get any easier. Every time he had to restrain himself, keep himself from flailing or lashing out or breaking out until Bond told him to do so. He wasn’t willing to just act, though, Bonds bandages a vivid reminder of why not whenever the other man laid his hands around his throat. By the end of it, he was exhausted, both physically and mentally. At the beginning, he’d tried to keep up his end of the banter, keep it light, but as time wore on and he wore out, and Bond still ordered him back into the sand every time he managed to escape, giving him pointers and instructions and whatnot, he ran out of smart lines and just did as he was told quietly, silently hoping that this time it would be good enough, that Bond would be satisfied and Quint could go sleep.

The day had been so long already, their fight just that morning seeming more like three days ago and he’d calculated fairly early on that, given the position of the moon and the stars, he couldn’t have had much more than two hours of sleep before Bond woke him up again. He kept his peace though, because Bond had a point. Silva wasn’t going to wait until he was well-rested and prepared. Silva was going to blindside him and if Quint wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t good enough, he was dead.

Quint found his mind wandering on more than one occasion, the physical repetition not enough to keep his attention, but he called himself to task ruthlessly. It was only when Quint’s movements became sluggish, his mental process more of a constant ranting at himself to keep focussed, to keep going, than actually focussed at the task itself, that Bond finally let up.

“You’re done in.” Instead of getting up to straddle the smaller man again, Bond stood up to reach down, grabbing Quint’s hand to haul him up without taking time to debate it. His right arm he kept carefully out of the way, as if finally making an effort to behave, although it reached out to steady Quint as he was pulled to his feet. Bond looked closely at him for a moment, and frowned, “Fuck, Q, you could have told me to stop before now,” he found himself saying, looking at the exhaustion that he’d been too task-oriented to see before now.

Quint was swaying ever so slightly, squinting and taking a long moment to steady himself. “You’re right, I need to be able to do this. Silva’s not going to wait for me to be ready and in top form, either. I just need some sleep, that’s all…” he shrugged lightly, the movement making him sway again, but he translated the momentum into a step quickly, and started making his way to his mattress with the same determined focuss he’d been applying to their training for most of the past hour.

Perhaps it should have been expected, but Bond followed, his own steps still light and even, the only indication of strain being that he was actually holding his arm carefully. As they came near the others, Bond’s hand fell on Quint’s shoulder, feather-light for a moment as he ordered, “Stay here a sec,” then walked past, deviating towards where the bulk of the crew were sleeping - as if he hadn’t been avoiding those same people just hours earlier.

Quint had frozen the moment Bond’s hand fell on his shoulder, and when Bond came back he was just standing there, eyes staring in the direction he’d left in, but not seeming to see anything much.

A water bottle (the kind generally not allowed on planes, ironically, unless you bought it after boarding) was in the man’s hands, his cheeky grin saying that someone was going to miss it in the morning. Seeing how out-of-it Quint was, Bond pressed it into his hands and then slipped an arm behind the smaller man’s back, placing them close but also allowing Bond to gently coax his feet into moving again. Bond swore again, quietly and to himself.

Quint had frozen the moment the arm had circled him, but then forced himself to relax and let himself be led to his mattress. It didn’t even occur to him to do anything with the bottle other than hold it. Instead, he was desperately trying to puzzle out Bond’s behaviour and his own reactions to it. His mind was sluggish though, and in desperate need of sleep, and it was a frustrating process to say the least.

Instead of releasing him when they reached the air-mattress, Bond’s grip tightened marginally, fingertips pressing warm points of contact into Quint’s ribs while the man made a soft noise in his throat. It was almost a distressed sound, although from a man of Bond’s calibre, it sounded more disgruntled. “Did I break you, Q?” he asked. It was probably meant to be light, but it sounded off - worried - although the man continued to try and keep it in the safe territory of a light joke, “I’ll deny it in the morning, but I’m missing that snark of yours.” Somewhere in there, Bond’s head had turned in close, as if he needed to press the words against Quint’s hair - as close a gesture as he could get without being quite intimate.

Quint tried to come up with a properly snarky response to that, but was drawing a blank. He finally shrugged. “Just need some sleep, don’t worry… How’s your arm holding up?” His response sounded dull, but in the last bit, a spark of worry actually managed to break through. He finally looked down at the bottle though, and opened it with excessive care before taking a drink.

Bond shrugged, and answered like any good secret agent in any movie Quint had ever seen, “I can move it.”

“’s not an answer,” Quint reminded him, before draining the last of the bottle.

Since for some reason Bond was very happy to stick to him like Velcro, the chuckle was more felt than heard. “It’s more an answer than MI6 Medical would get. Congratulations, Q: you already are a better handler of 00-agents than Medical staff.”

Quint sniffed. “I’d hope so…” It was a bit of nonsense though, he thought to himself. If he’d been a better handler, Bond wouldn’t go around constantly exacerbating his injuries in the first place… It was the best he could come up with, though, and it would have to do. He looked regretfully at the empty bottle, but instead of asking for more water, prioritized sleep and once more started towards his mattress and blessed sleep.

Apparently Bond was intent on being dogged tonight, though - or perhaps ‘clingy’ was a better word, even if it was harder to put that tag on a man like him. At least it was Bond’s good arm that he was using, as it slithered further around Quint’s rib-cage to hold him close. “I have two questions, Q, and you can ignore one of them - but you have to let me ask both first,” said the man in a carefully blank voice, expression hidden because it was dark and he seemed to be talking very close to the side of Quint’s head again. Soft breath almost like a question itself touch Quint’s ear.

A slight curl of irritation bubbled up in Quint. Could that man never just say what he was about? He reigned it in though, and kept walking. If Bond wanted to cling and play 20 questions, that was his problem. Quint was going to get to his mattress and sit down before he fell down, something that was starting to feel like a very real possibility if he didn’t get to do it in the next minute or so. He took a breath. “What do you want to ask, Bond?” He was honestly proud of how even he sounded.

Sitting down in the sand a small ways away, hands now dangling loose over his knees as if unsure what to do with themselves now that they weren’t touching something - someone - Bond met Q’s eyes and asked, “Why do you hate MI6 so much?”

Quint almost fell down when he finally did reach is mattress, but managed to let it look at least slightly deliberate. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes and the bridge of his nose with two fingers. When nothing more seemed to be forthcoming, he looked up, in the general direction of Bond, but not quite getting it right. “And…?”

Bond was pretty close, and it wasn’t until Quint felt a slight twitch that he realized the man had reached out in the dark to drag a finger down the dangling arm of his glasses. “And were you completely fucking with me when you started flirting out there?” was the next perfectly blunt question.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is one answer, but only one, Bond does some preemptive sleepwalking and Sam finally breaks down and tattles on Quint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We hope everyone has a lovely, magical Christmas, Hanukkah, Yule or other mid-winter celebration. Remember (at least those who live on the north side of the globe, and isn't is amazing that I even need to specify that? I mean, your writers live almost on the other side of the world as it is, but to think that people all over the world are reading this... Wow. Just wow), the darkest time of the year is done. It'll be a little lighter for a little longer every day from now... It's something to be grateful for.

Quint flinched a little at the last question, but collected himself soon enough. He took another moment to think it over, then looked in Bond’s general direction again. “I… don’t hate them, exactly,” he said, evenly. “But I don’t trust them either. Neither Snowden nor Assange ever meant to harm anyone. The documents they exposed were only meant to bring to light misuse of power and resources to spy on ordinary people. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of the novel 1984, but as a hacker I know better than anyone just how much one can know about another person if one puts their mind to it. Even if governments, the American government, the British one, every other government out there, really did have nothing but the good of the world and its people at heart - and you can’t honestly tell me they do, all the time - who is to say that the next government will? To have that sort of information, that sort of access to a person’s life, it makes it all too easy for people to start… Disappearing, just because they emailed the wrong person or said the wrong thing. Snowden and Assange both had to flee, had to go undercover and be fugitives for exposing information that the government would’ve prefered hidden. While in this case, it’s the Americans, is MI6 really so different? And even if it is now, as you say, who is to say that the next head of MI6 won’t be more like the NSA? That’s what I have against MI6, and MI5 for that matter. So yes, when a whistleblower approached me and asked me to help him remove all identifying information from MI6’s servers so he’d be safe to reveal documents that showed that MI6 was up to the same things the NSA has been… I agreed to help. I wasn’t even surprised to hear it.” He fell silent, the eloquence alone showing that this was a speech he’d made more than once, or at the very least repeated in his head a number of times.

“And the second question?” Bond pressed, refusing to show any visual cues on what he thought of Q’s reasoning - although he looked surprisingly unoffended by it all. Then again, Bond had proven that he was perfectly aware of his job description, and how it involved spying, shooting, and generally doing things considered amoral by the general public.

“I thought you said to answer only one,” Quint said, his eyes going the tiniest bit more aware, a little sardonic smile forming on his lips.

“I said you _could_ ,” Bond corrected with a wry twist of his lips, an impressed look, “I was hoping you wouldn’t take that out.” With an unexpected air of regret filling the silence, Bond politely stood, nodding formally but saying in a much more companionable tone, “Goodnight, Q.”

Quint gratefully put his glasses in their spot on top of his bags right besides his mattress and moved to curl up. He didn’t have the foggiest what he was expected to answer to that second question, and if Bond was willing to let it go… Well. He wasn’t going to complain.

Apparently Bond wasn’t going to let it go.

The air mattress moved, and before Q could even squeak, he appeared to be sharing.

“You have _got_ to be kidding me,” Quint muttered, before he could stop himself. Not knowing exactly what else to do, he buried his head a little deeper under an arm and curled up a little tighter.

“You didn’t say that you were just yanking my chain,” came the totally unflappable response as something warm and muscular curled against his back, making the effort to avoid him more or less moot, “So I’m assuming it was the truth.” There was a pause that just _had_ to contain a smile, right next to the back of Q’s neck so the next words were warm against his nape as Bond repeated them...this time as if wanting a response, the cheeky bugger, “Good night, Q.” At least he hadn’t actually wrapped himself around Q, although his was still close enough that Quint was aware of it with every fiber of his being.

It was tempting to lash out, to ask Bond why he had to keep yanking _Quint’s_ chain, because gods, the man had to realise what sort of effect he was having on him. He was a secret agent, for crying out loud, and Quint wasn’t exactly a master of deceit. He just… He was just so very tired. And he didn’t want to fight again. He didn’t want to lose this, too… Quint closed his eyes. He’d take whatever he could get, he decided, for however long he could get it. And when it all crashed and burned… That was later and hopefully they’d be off this island and Quint would be long gone. When he fell asleep, there was a little sad smile on his face, hidden in the curl of his body.

~^~

Bond woke Quint up with a full-body jerk, arms (which hadn’t been wrapped around Q when they’d fallen asleep had started, but had apparently ended up there somewhere during the night) momentarily locking tight around him. As promised earlier, however, 007 regained himself quickly, the grip loosening to something more comfortable. Apparently Bond had unconsciously taken it upon himself to tangle their legs up, too, because one pushed against Q’s ankle as it moved. It was still dark out, and Bond made an irked groan. “Q?”

“If this is another self-defence class, I’m going to kill you, Bond.” Q mumbled, curling his body up a little tighter and tossing an arm over his eyes to keep the sunlight away before it even arrived.

As the smaller body moved against him, Bond made a contented noise that sounded largely involuntary, and for a moment his arms tightened again - the lazy flexing of a cat. “That’s one of the odder things someone has said to me after sleeping with me,” Bond informed him candidly, before sighing and saying with less pleasantness and more regret, “No, not more self-defence. But if I don’t get up and leave now, it’s going to get bright enough to see me, and all of our efforts to not be seen together excessively might be blown - especially if Silva sees.” Despite that, Bond nosed briefly against the back of Q’s head and didn’t move.

A loose, floppy hand emerged from the tangle of limbs that was Q, and waved dismissively. “Lovers’ spat,” his voice was a little hoarse and he was obviously not awake enough just yet to realise the implications of his words. His nearly incomprehensible “Sleep now,” accompanied by more floppy handwaving only confirmed this suspicion.

For a moment, Bond stiffened, and then he even went so far as to lean up on one elbow to arch over and see Q’s expression better - this plan was flummoxed, of course, by the fact that Q’s arm was still thrown over his eyes. Settling back down again and blinking at the back of Q’s head, Bond’s muscles twitched minutely as if considering ignoring the drowsy command, but despite the fact that he regularly ignored M’s most strident orders, he felt those two lazy words like hooks beneath his ribs, holding him in against his better judgment. Tentatively, he slipped his arms tighter again, just by degrees, seeing if he’d get an untoward reaction. Nothing happened, so he found himself going back to sleep, the smell of salt in Q’s hair strangely comforting.

~*~

Quint woke up to the sun on his face and a warm body wrapped around him. It took him a long moment to remember how, exactly, this had come to be, and a while longer to drag up the reasons why he should be upset about this out of his absurdly content mind. When they did come forth, though, Quint had to suppress a long groan. What if Silva had seen them? What if the others had? Bugger.

Well, he supposed that he’d given Hasan one hell of a conversation-opener there, at least…

He allowed himself to luxuriate in the feel of Bond wrapped around him for one moment longer, allowed himself to imagine that it wasn’t just Bond being Bond, or Bond keeping him alive and loyal, or simply Bond toying with his emotions for one moment longer. Then he started the very slow, very careful process of extracting himself.

He mused on the situation with not a small amount of humour: usually, in this scenario, it would be the visiting party extracting themselves and making a swift getaway before dawn, wouldn’t it? Just Quint’s luck that he got to have the one one-night-stand where he would have to not only flee from his own bed, but also the one where the one-night-stand hadn’t even happened! Not that he had much experience with this sort of thing, in the general sense, but he was pretty sure that was what was supposed to happen regardless.

At Q’s first twitch, biceps tightened around his torso, muscles flexing smoothly and quite instantly. Bond didn’t make a sound, and with the man behind Q, it was impossible to tell if he was awake… but it seemed that, even asleep, the man was going to make himself hard to ignore.

Quint sighed, went still for a moment, then started over.

Bond, who’d actually been very much awake from the first change in Q’s breathing patterns, and watching all of this with mild, amused interest, gave Q exactly ten seconds of time and three inches of wiggle-room, and then locked down again. It was actually quite gratifying to hear the smaller man’s breath leave him in an involuntary squeak, his bony frame twisting a bit so that Bond could feel a few edges pressed against his bones. It was definitely uncomfortable… and yet somehow Bond had to resist the urge to groan, sparks flying up his spine at the feel of gracefully curved ribs and poky vertebrae pressed flush to his more muscled frame. Before now, he would have described Q as a rail-thin scarecrow of a person, but at the moment he found himself grasping for a better way to put it, because none of that sounded exactly appealing, and that just didn’t seem _right_.

Trained to see motion, 007 wanted to kick himself for glancing over Q’s head a bit too late to see Sam. He should have seen her coming while she was still in the distance, but instead, she was very much within visual range, and doing a very, very poor job of hiding a manic grin behind her hand. She mouthed something that usually Bond would have been able to interpret, but right now he was beating himself up for being lax. While Bond glared at Sam and flushed for possibly the first time in years, Q was left squirming as subtly as he could, thinking that everyone but him was still asleep and oblivious to his plight. Belatedly, Bond released, letting Q slip loose while 007 tried to decide just how much trouble he was in with Sam, who was making no attempt to hide herself or stop smirking.

With the sudden freedom, Quint rolled off the mattress almost instantly. He lay there for a second, trying to make sense of the sudden tumble into the sand, before rubbing his eyes with a bit of a despairing edge to the gesture, standing up, bending over James and groping for his glasses. It was only after he’d shoved them onto his nose that he noticed the pair of blue eyes that was decidedly - despairingly - awake. He was torn between running or telling Bond in no uncertain terms just what sort of utter bloody _bastard_ he was, but finally settled for putting a hand over his eyes and just giving a heartfelt groan.

“I wish I had a sleepwalking stalker,” Sam announced her presence.

Quint’s head shot up and his eyes found Sam before closing. He took a deep breath. He took another deep breath. He opened his eyes. Sam was still there. “You really, really don’t,” he finally offered up, plaintively.

Bond gave a mildly offended look but kept silent. He looked as though he were quietly assessing a possibly deadly situation, holding perfectly still until he had all of the variables figured out. He even glanced once to his gun (removed, next to the air-mattress), but it was more of a knee-jerk reaction.

Sam looked between the two of them with a raised eyebrow, obviously trying to make sense of the situation at hand, but ultimately laughed. “Well, I’ll admit, waking up would probably be a little odd at times, and said sleepwalking stalker could count on a lot less gentleness from me than you’re giving him, but… I don’t know, I’d wager the cost-benefits analysis would come out somewhere on the positive end of the scale.”

Quint groaned again, and, now that everyone seemed to be awake and aware anyway, started pulling a fresh change of clothes out of his pack. “You’d be surprised…” he said, maybe a tad harshly. “Anyway, what if Silva had seen us?” He was looking directly at Bond now.

Bond jumped, as if he’d been hoping that he’d somehow been forgotten. Then he regained himself, however, like a cat righting itself after tripping, and seemed to consider something for a second. He looked at Sam and her cat-with-the-canary grin, Q with his hackles up and face flushed red, and ultimately decided there was no real good answer besides the truth. “You were the one who said ‘lover’s spat’ when I asked you that exact same thing,” he threw back as he sat up, refusing to look at Sam because Sam had to be _rolling_ with laughter by now. Bond looked more exasperated than offended, but the fact remained that he’d been caught in far more compromising positions without feeling quite this… out of his element. He refused at the moment to think that it might have something to do with the company.

“I did no such thing,” Quint said, glaring, but behind the glare it was obvious he wasn’t quite sure.

“You did, right after you threatened to kill me if I was waking you up for more self-defence,” Bond deadpanned, getting a bad feeling about Q’s ability to remember things in the middle of the night.

Quint groaned. “That… does sound like me. Yes. Damn it.” He wiped a hand over his face tiredly. “Never a dull moment with you, is there, Bond?” he asked, before straightening himself and waving the bundle of clothes at the both of them. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I want to get out of these clothes before they come alive and walk away on their own!” With that, he disappeared a little further down the treeline, to a little group of trees that would afford him at least some privacy.

Sam watched him go with a bemused look on her face. Then walked over and let herself fall onto the part of the air mattress that Quint had deserted. Her face was a mix between eager curiosity and very real concern. “So you finally made your move, did you?” she asked, giving Bond a knowing smirk.

He cast her a wary look, but at least he didn’t go for his gun - although his hand twitched as if disliking the emptiness and the distance of his weapon. “I… wouldn’t exactly call it that,” he hedged, wincing at his own tone, which was wildly unsure.

An eyebrow rose and then she was rolling her eyes in the most dramatic way possibly. “You two!” She actually threw up her hands. “So spill, how do you manage to end up sleeping curled all around him for all the world to see if you two are still blundering around in the dark?” She was blunt, yes, but there was a fondness and warmth behind the exasperation that took away some of the sting.

Giving in, perhaps because he was already quite flustered and didn’t feel like facing wrath from two sides (because he had the sinking suspicion that Q wasn’t happy with him), Bond rubbed a hand over his face, explaining into his palm slowly, “Believe it or not, Q was the one who started flirting.”

“So you jumped into bed with him?” Sam tried to follow, then grew confused and turned to face him more fully, “Wait - when did this happen?! I’ve been basically with you two the whole time.”

“Might have been… somewhere after midnight. Although the flirting was perhaps closer to two A.M. I’d say for certain, but clocks aren’t exactly available in abundance here,” Bond sighed, adding just a bit of snark.

She hit her head with her hand. Apparently, she was having a dramatic day. “So it’s midnight, or maybe closer to two A.M., you and Quint are still awake, and Quint starts flirting with you, after which you two end up sleeping curled up together like a pair of lovesick teenagers… But not snogging like those same teenagers? How does this work, James, because I’m not seeing it, and I like to think I know a thing or two about how those things work…”

Bond cut her a mischievous look, and apparently couldn’t help himself: “I never said there was no snogging.”

She stared at him evenly. “There was no snogging.”

“Well, both of us spent time on our backs last night,” Bond went on, slipping into a smoother tone and clearly preferring lying to the truth, “I suppose that’s better than snogging. I even managed to get physical without hurting my arm. Proud, Doctor?” He was actually using his tone convincingly enough that it, on its own, would have fooled anyone - the only giveaway was how quickly he’d slipped into it. No doubt he hoped that he’d manage to annoy the doctor into giving up.

“Very. More self-defense then?” She sounded annoyingly gentle and concerned just then, and it was somehow worse than the ribbing from before.

“I wanted to teach him something more involved than the teens could handle,” Bond defended himself, giving up teasing Sam when the concern hit and disarmed him better than snark would have, “and after dark meant no unfriendly eyes would see. He took to it really well for being a string-bean.” The fondest look of pride flickered briefly across his gaze before it was replaced by something more akin to frustration. “And then Q said… something more suggestive than I was expecting. And _no_ , I did not tumble him into bed instantly.” He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, looking annoyed, mood shifting again. “We kept practicing, and I kept ignoring how bloody _there_ he was, which - to make a long story short - ended in me forcibly sharing a bed with him.” Bond stopped again, blinking into the treeline moodily, and finally grunted, “You can call me a dog now.”

Sam deflated a little next to him. “You two…” she repeated, softer this time. “Why _didn’t_ you make a move on him, when he started flirting?”

“Because I already had him on his back in the dirt and had been spending the last few minutes strangling him,” Bond said as bluntly as a bullet to the skull. Voice a bit dead, he finished, “Hardly seemed fair. Or at least particularly well-timed.”

Sam shook his head. “Do you realise that he’s been making eyes at you pretty much since we arrived at the island?” she asked, just as bluntly, but took some of the sting out of her words with a hand on his.

“And do you realize he later yelled at me for purposefully fostering his affections?” was the swift retort, with a bitter downward twist of his mouth. Despite his general denial of anything going on between the two of them, he was doing exactly as he had last night: watching where Q was. He couldn’t see him now, but his eyes had followed where the bespectacled man had gone, and continually drifted back there like a magnet trying to seek North.

Sam followed his eyes and smiled sadly. “I can imagine. You’re a handsome man, James, and a natural flirt to booth. I can just imagine how often someone like Q, whom I’ll bet spends more time behind a computer-screen than not if he gets the chance, gets so much attention from someone like you. He’s just realizing he might have a chance... and then he finds out that that person that he looked up to and trusted and might maybe, possibly have a thing for, is really only there to kill him. Must’ve hurt like a punch to the stomach...”

“So you understand how he’s probably going to smack me when he gets back?” was how Bond took this, looking like he couldn’t decide whether to be slightly vicious or slightly despondent.

Sam shrugged. “He’d be in his full right to smack you, as far as I’m concerned, and I’ll stand here and cheer him on, but somehow I doubt he’ll-”

“You’re not helping,” Bond interrupted with a low growl.

“But I doubt he’ll want to hit you,” she soldiered on, “Or maybe he’ll want to, hell, you have a way about you, James… I’m pretty sure he’s not the first to be torn between hitting you and snogging you, am I wrong? Of course I’m not. My point is, you did all that, dashed his hopes and put him at risk and made him feel like crap, and still here he is, flirting and snarking at you more than he probably should, for his own mental health. What does that tell you?”

“That he’s mentally insane.”

“Fair point. He also didn’t knock you on your ass when he woke this morning and you were holding on to him like a kid to his teddy-bear. Make your bloody move, Bond, or give him space, because this… This is just unfair.”

Bond managed to push the sharper edges of his reactions down, and as he took a deep breath, grew contemplative. “Fine,” he muttered, pushing to his feet, “But if this ends poorly…” He looked back over his shoulder at Sam, and his expression was unaccountably sad for a second before he battered down the expression, hiding it all away. “If this ends poorly, you side with him before me. I’m not a good person, and you and Q should both know that.”

The look Sam gave his back as he stalked off was incredibly sad. Why did these men, who, by her account, were both so strong and decent and _good_ , insist on viewing themselves as so unworthy of love and affection? Both of them. She sighed. She’d always had a soft spot for the hard cases, but these two… Stupid idiots, the pair of them. If they didn’t see sense soon, she might have to knock some sense into their head the hard way… She’d always had a good strong right hook.

~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thinking about the places where everyone lives and how it's not winter for all of you got me curious: Where do all of you live, dear readers? And what sort of winter-holiday do you celebrate, if you celebrate one at all? Let me know! (and let me know what you think as well, of course...)


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bond despairs at Q's wardrobe choices and plots accordingly, there is some more 'self-defense' and Ishya employs the most deadly weapon on the island.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For starters: Happy new year everyone! I hope it'll bring you all the good things you might hope for!
> 
> Also: So, so sorry I missed the update on Monday. Holidays have thrown my rhythm off completely. That's one good thing about me being back to work next Monday I suppose... I might start updating in time again. In the mean while you get two chapters today, to make up for it... And I'm pretty sure you'll find them worth the wait. ;)
> 
> I didn't give them a final-readthrough like I normally would, because I, for one, had a great new year's party. Will do so tomorrow!

 “Q.”

The voice, as always, was right behind him. Quint only jumped the slightest bit, half expecting it by now. He quickly tugged his t-shirt over his head before turning back to Bond.

Bond looked at the T-shirt, his own fashion sense clearly somewhat offended by it, and he pointed, “There’s blood on the collar of that one.”

Quint stretched the collar to look at it and made a face. “And I actually _like_ this one!” he whined. Bond didn’t see what was so special about it, but then again, his shirts rarely said anything. This one just said ‘Have you tried turning it off and on again?’ in big bold letters on the front.

With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, Bond tried not to look like he found Q’s affection for his shirt misguided but endearing. “I’ll buy you a new one once we get back to civilization. I said I owed you a shirt and I meant it.” He waved his left hand briefly, showing the bandages that he was doing a miraculous job of keeping clean by this point.

“The way we’re going, you’ll soon owe me a whole new wardrobe,” Quint said, pouting a little. “Good luck finding replacements for some of those! There are some limited editions in there, you know?”

Clearly restraining the urge to ask how that was a limited edition of anything, Bond leaned a shoulder against a nearby tree, getting to the point at hand, “I’ve got a surprisingly varied array of connections. But we have to talk, Q.”

Quint rose an eyebrow, obviously doubting if Bond was connected enough to pull off _that_. “Is this talk going to involve more self-defence?” he asked instead, giving Bond a look of mock-dread.

“Do you want it to?” Bond’s voice dropped an octave, and where it should have slid into threatening sound, it went somewhere else entirely instead - low like smoke instead of low like gravel. Blue eyes watched Q intently now, whatever topic he’d had in mind losing precedence without much effort.

Quint froze in the process of examining the blood-stain and wondering if he would get it out of his clothing later, and if he could get away with wearing it anyway. He coloured under the tan that was slowly replacing the red-hot burn on his face. “I…” Damn it, Bond! How did that man always manage to throw him off kilter so badly?

Slowly, Bond shifted forward, hands finding Q’s shoulders and pushing him back against a tree without quite expressing much force - merely the suggestion of it. The reminder of it. The possibility of it. “What was that, Q?”

Quint allowed himself to be backed against it, still staring at Bond and trying to formulate a proper response. “I suppose… Self-defence could play a role?” Smooth Quint, real smooth.

“Play a role?” Bond echoed back, the slight curl of his mouth indicating that he was okay with that - or at least liked the wording. “All right. I’ve forgotten more things than most people remember in which self-defense ‘plays a role’.” He eased a bit closer, increasing the pressure without it getting uncomfortable. He frowned at his right arm, but before he could be told off for stressing it, he let up the pressure he was exerting on it, shifting it so that he leaned with his elbow next to Q’s ear. “In your hacking, how much did you learn about MI6 training for the double-oh program?”

Quint leaned into the closeness the slightest bit, welcoming it even as he pulled a face at another seemingly random turnabout in the conversation. He went along with it easily enough, though. “Nothing! I didn’t actually look at anything in there, you know? That would be unethical...”

“Good.” Bond smiled, inordinately pleased. “I’ll be the one to teach it to you then. Did you know the best way to disarm a person is from this close?” Bond once again had his gun on, something that had gone unnoticed until now just because it looked so natural on the man: he probably looked more naked without the holster than he would without all of this clothes.

Quint had to resist the urge to actually bang his head back against the tree. Self-defence? They were going to being doing actual self-defence? Really? And he’d been so sure… But that was stupid of course. He should’ve learned by now that nothing was ever sure when it came to Bond. It was part of what made the man so interesting, in a sense. In another sense though… Bloody tease.

“Don’t give me that look,” Bond chided, mouth still curled up at one side, “This is much less complicated that previous lessons, and you’ve already told me not to insult your intelligence, so I won’t.” Bond let that sink in, while his canny blue eyes said it wouldn’t be that simple, “You try and take my gun-” The man moved a bit, sliding closer as if to be helpful - right up until it made more of him brush up against Q than before. His right arm, braced alongside Q’s head, allowed work-scarred fingers to bury in Q’s hair, and it was impossible to tell exactly what Bond was playing at because his face was suddenly out of sight, nudging under Q’s jaw as he finished his sentence in a low murmur - a vibrato against Q’s skin, “-And I try and stop you.”

Quint almost let a groan escape. What he couldn’t quite stop though, was his head dropping back and his eyes closing. He figured he could play if off as exasperation and used the time it granted him to focus back on self-defence. It was then that it occurred to him that… “Bond… You are aware that Silva doesn’t _have_ a gun for me to take, right? And no shoulder holster?”

“Perfectly aware.” Bond had gotten the words out, but the last one was muffled slightly as he tugged at Q’s hair, tilting Q’s head enough to nudge easily against the back of Q’s jaw and just taste the skin. He paused then, of course, whole body frozen in that eerie way he had: every muscle stilling in place as if carved there in stone, one hand still curled over the sinew and bone of Q’s shoulder and the other resting alongside his head, body close enough that even the faint pausing of his breath was noticeable. He pressed a kiss on the skin he’d revealed behind Q’s ear, his only movement before he said, “Do you want me to stop?” The joking was gone.

Quint let out a breath, but at Bond’s admission that he was really quite aware what he was doing to Quint, that he was doing it on purpose, something in him relaxed. Take what you can get, he reminded himself, and smirked in Bond’s neck. “If this is self-defence, I think I might actually grow to like it… And will need lots of practice.” He allowed his hands, which had been hanging limply by his side so far, to slowly slide under Bond’s shirt, long fingers splaying out over the muscles he found there. “I’m sure with the right… leverage, I could manage that move of yours.” He was honestly surprised at the things he was spouting, but decided then and there not to worry about it. He was fairly sure he could never hear the word ‘self-defence’ and not flash back to this moment, though.

That was apparently more than enough to unlock Bond from his stillness, and there was an honest-to-goodness growl against the hollow behind Q’s jaw, shuddering down his spine for a split-second before Bond shifted impossibly closer so that he was pinning Q from knees to chest with his entire frame. That didn’t satisfy, clearly, because Bond’s hands moved to slide heavily down the smaller man’s sides and behind him, fitting between the small of Q’s back and the tree, forcing a slight arch to Q’s spine that pulled him beautifully flush against the 00-agent. The next rush of air against his skin was accompanied by something too gentle to be a bite but too hungry to be a simple kiss. “Why do you have to be-?” Bond said in exasperated, broken sentences while his body tried to decide whether it wanted to pull Q forward or push him back, “-So bloody complicated?!” Another rough kiss, this one to Q’s jaw, Bond’s hands kneading the muscles connecting the back of Q’s ribs to his vertebrae.

One of Q’s hands had slid around to the small of Bond’s back, and Q was using it to pull himself even closer, not really caring enough to hide how much he was responding to this. The other hand slid out lightning quick and instead slid around the back of Bond’s neck, gripped in the small hairs at the base of his skull, and crashed their mouths together.

Quint didn’t hesitate for one second, using Bond’s open mouth to sweep his tongue along his lips and then against Bond’s own, not with the finesse that Bond possessed, but with the raw passion of someone who had waited far too bloody long for this.

The chuckle was low, and built, a sound to crash between them as if it lived as much in Q’s mouth as Bond’s. It wasn’t teasing - it was low and pleased, as Bond changed the angle to deepen the kiss more effortlessly. He pulled away, annoyingly, but only to say with a certain satisfaction and husky admiration, “Determination. Bloody determination. That’s your secret weapon, isn’t it?” Before Q could answer, Bond pushed forward and returned the favor, dragging at Q’s lower lip expertly with his teeth while his arms folded around behind Q to keep them sealed together. Possessiveness was a double-o trait.

It was only a few moments later, however, that Bond was pulling back - but subtly. Mostly, it was just so that he could kiss his way back into Q’s hair, eventually mouthing at the shell of his ear. The words dropped in idly, almost unexpectedly, on a careless undertone, “As much as I’d like this to continue - and I really would - I believe that we’re going to have an audience in just a few seconds. If we’re lucky, it will be Sam, and she’ll just watch-” Bond raised his voice, so it would be audible to people coming, “-Like the pervert she is.”

“Oh, don’t stop on my account…” Sam’s voice was smug as anything, and the positively evil glare Quint was sending her over Bond’s shoulder would have caused spontaneous combustion in a lesser person. Sam being Sam, though, it seemed to slide off her like water off a duck. She just looked at the two of them, smirking and smug, and Q wanted to punch her so badly for disturbing them _just_ when they were finally… “I was only on my way to the infirmary, sorry boys, don’t stop on my account… The view is spectacular.”

Beneath Q’s hands, muscles shifted, but Bond could as easily have been flexing to show off or just bloody moving - because the man was made of muscle, and every time he shifted it was something to see. He hadn’t turned back to look at Sam, though, and instead took in Q’s look of ire and placed a soft kiss at his temple, distracting him. “Sorry, doctor,” he said smoothly, all calm smiles, “but I’m afraid I don’t like sharing.” It would have seemed like the man wasn’t affected by any of this at all, had not Q been feeling pretty much every inch of him, and able to see the way Bond’s pupils were devouring the blue of his eyes. Largs hands still around Q’s torso squeezed, blunt fingernails dragging at Q’s clothing because they hadn’t even gotten under his shirt yet - in that category, Q had been the proactive one.

Sam laughed, then, to Quint’s endless gratitude, turned around and started walking. “Well, if you two want something else to eat, I’ll save you some breakfast by the infirmary… Oh and, what I was actually coming to warn you about…” She looked back over her shoulder, impish smile firmly in place, “Incoming…!”

Quint collapsed back against the tree and groaned because he could see what she meant. Laughter was coming from the same direction she was walking in, and it was closer, along with excited shouting and the figure of a teenage girl pointing at them. “Well, so much for some private self-defence tutoring…” Quint said, defeated.

“Later, Q,” was the promise in his ear before 007 disengaged himself with the smoothness of a man who had probably done something like this before - however, one arm seemed to remain stuck around Q’s middle. It would look like he didn’t have time to slip entirely free with his injuries, but practically everyone had seen Bond do far worse, so the only logical conclusion was that he liked to rub his thumb absently against Q’s vertebrae. Quick blue eyes watched as the teenagers more or less spilled into view, their eyes going first to their ‘boss’ before seeming to take in Bond and Sam - the latter two both looking rather pleased. Bond’s pleasure was better hidden, merely a playful light in his eyes. Sam’s… wasn’t hidden at all. She looked incredibly smug.

“Boss! Bond! We found you!” Tara said, grinning.

The teens seemed mostly unaware of what they’d interrupted, but Quint noted that Hasan’s eyes made a quick trajectory over Bond, Quint, and every point of contact between them, before giving Quint a slightly shy, but also strangely hopeful look.

“We were hoping you could teach us more self-defence, Mr. Bond! Sam says she’s run out, but I just know you know other things… Will you?” Ishya looked at Bond pleadingly, and Quint couldn’t quite escape the notion that the others had put her up to it. It was working, though, because apparently no one could quite escape Ishya when she was using those puppy-eyes, and Bond, he was quite aware, was more vulnerable to them than most.

“Technically, I’m supposed to be resting,” Bond was able to dodge slightly, while the rubbing of his thumb turned to light scratching. It was bloody distracting, and what was more, completely hidden from anyone else’s view.

Sam gave an aborted snort and Quint looked at Bond sideways, shaking his head, an exasperated expression on his face.

“But you can tell us what to do, right? Please?” Tara fell in, giving Ishya’s puppy-eye tactics a try. “Come on, you’re supposed to be the big bad knight in shining armour sort, right?”

Now Quint was laughing as well, and Bond got the disturbing idea that he was being laughed _at_.

“Funny,” he deadpanned, although the annoyance was put on. As some sort of minor punishment for Q (if it could be called that), Bond finally got his hand under the smaller man’s shirt enough to run fingertips down his back, reveling in the twitch of involuntary surprise and following shiver as he played at the edge of Q’s belt, callouses against warm, smooth skin. “All right then. Let it never be said that flattery doesn’t work on me,” he changed his tune with a roguish grin, making Ishya giggle a bit.

A round of laughter and cheers went up among the minions and Quint settled back into Bond’s arm the tiniest bit. It pressed his lower back more firmly into Bond’s hand. He brought his mouth a little closer to Bond’s ear. “Well… Self-defence class it is. I do hope you plan on teaching them some somewhat more… conventional moves,” he murmured, taking the opportunity of the kids’ distraction to plant a quick kiss just behind Bond’s ear, going so far as to dart out his tongue for the slightest moment. Then he was gone, grinning at Bond and pulling his shirt down a little lower over the rather too tight jeans he was wearing. He might not be unaffected, but it seemed he wasn’t going to just lie back and let Bond take all the initiative, either.

Bond watched appreciatively for a second before trotting after him, obedient for a change of pace. Soon the group of them were back out on the beach, and Bond (despite his words about resting), managed to be involved whenever Sam or Q’s back was turned.

~^~

“You know, you were supposed to not get involved so you could heal…” Quint said, letting himself fall into the sand next to Bond, who was sitting a ways away from where the other passengers were talking, preparing dinner, hauling around water, and generally doing those things necessary to keep their camp running and all of them alive. Quint had originally gone there to see if there was anything he could do to help, but then he’d spotted Bond and… Well, after that morning’s embarrassment it was just too much temptation to give up.

He was still torn between feeling angry at Sam for laughing at them and embarrassing them, or grateful to her for making sure the kids hadn’t been the ones to find them in such a compromising position.

Thoughts of Bond and what they’d started that morning hadn’t been far from his mind all day, but he’d ignored them. There were other things to be done, and those were more important than fooling around. Stupid as he felt, allowing Bond so much power over his body and mind, he had to admit that the secret looks Bond had sent him were gratifying.

It confused him, how easily Sam had gone from flirting with Bond and, supposedly, doing quite a bit more than that, to cheering them on. She’d even pulled him apart earlier, giving him what basically amounted to the weirdest pep-talk he’d ever had. He hadn’t said much back, flabbergasted by her weird behaviour. And then there’d been Hasan, who’d bumped his arm when he’d caught Quint looking at Bond, and given him this really happy grin.

He didn’t think any of them realised that this meant nothing to Bond. Just some fun, a way to keep themselves occupied and distracted and probably to keep Quint by his side and safe and firmly loyal to him. It should mean nothing to Quint, either, but it was hard to remember when you had the whole and undivided focus of of James Bond directly on you.

It was even harder to remember when Bond would correct his stance and what should be innocent touches slid just a couple of inches further and became something that wasn’t innocent at all. Quint couldn’t even remember when he’d last felt so… so wanted. Which was just stupid, because this was just Bond being Bond and nothing more.

He’d promised himself he’d take what he could get though, and he was going to enjoy it to the fullest, too. And so he shuffled a little closer to Bond in the sand, leaned a little closer still, so that they were touching from shoulder to knee.

Bond’s eyes were still on everything else around them, but there was a subtle way in which his attention clearly shifted to Q. It was like feeling energy - usually contained within 007 like a storm - reaching out a finger to send it crackling against Q’s skin. “If I sat back and watched, I’d die of boredom,” Bond protested, and then added with a smirk creeping onto his face, “Besides that, if I had to watch _Sam_ with her hands all over you and correcting your stance instead of me, I might go a little mad.”

It took Quint a moment to remember that he’d just gotten on Bond’s case over getting involved… Again. Quint looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “ _You_ ’d go mad watching Sam correct _me_? Really Bond?” he asked, sitting back, leaning on his arms behind him and looking up at the sky. “Bit hypocritical, don’t you think?”


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which shit gets _real_ and boys are _stupid_ and your authors are _evil_.

Cautiously bemused blue eyes moved over to Q, filled with a look that said Bond didn’t know what was going on inside Q’s head and that he didn’t like the feeling of not knowing.  “I think you’re going to have to explain this one to me, Q,” he said with level calmness.

Quint shook his head, then gave Bond a long look, like he was trying to figure out his angle. “I walked in on the two of you, remember? I don’t know what happened that you suddenly transferred your interests to me, and I’m not complaining, but… Well. Hardly seems fair to be so jealous…”

Understanding flashed swiftly across James’s face, followed by a complicated series of other emotions that had the man rubbing a hand over his mouth either to hide that his jaw had dropped or that he wanted to smile and laugh.  He ended up sitting in silence for a moment instead, just staring at Q and deciding what to do next.  “How about,” Bond finally suggested, glancing around them again at the people not far away, “we discuss this somewhere less public?”  Quite deftly, he didn’t actually address the issue - but then again, the man was an MI6 spy.  Dancing around important information was probably what he did best.

Quint shrugged and got to his feet. “Good with me. Tell me though, just curiosity, of course… Is this ‘talk’ going to follow the theme of this morning?”

“Depends on how the talk goes,” Bond said in the same frustratingly unreadable voice, already walking away.

Quint did indeed follow him, and they soon found themselves in a patch of forest which, Quint hoped, would not be populated by curious or bored teenagers for a while yet. He liked the kids, he really did, but… Well, sometimes adult company was definitely preferable. He gave Bond a cheeky grin, walking a little closer to his side. “So, you were saying…?”

Bond’s arms were crossed and he didn’t reciprocate the closeness, although his expression looked more curious and bemused than anything harsher as he regarded the bespectacled man smiling at him.  “Answer me this, Q,” he said, shifting his weight to his other foot but otherwise remaining watchful and still, “You assume that I’m with Sam...and yet you still spare time for me.  I’m not quite reading the logic in this.”

Quint shrugged. “Sam most certainly doesn’t seem to mind,” he said, “And you’re not complaining… So why should I?”

“Because you seem like the kind of person who would flourish in a monogamous relationship,” was the surprisingly sympathetic answer.

Quint pulled back a little to really look at Bond. “What makes you say that?” he asked, honestly curious.

An uncertain shake of Bond’s head seemed the first answer, but really he was thinking, looking at Q as if devouring every detail - taking it apart piece by tiny piece, but always putting each fragment back as he found it, a gentle disruption.  “Because...even when you say that, it reminds me of the times someone betrayed me.  Maybe it’s not the same, but it’s a look I’ve seen in the mirror, or a look that’s similar.”  He held his silence for a bit, now just seeming to take in the shifting color of Q’s eyes, and something surged up behind 007’s blue irises in answer to whatever he saw.  “I bloody promised I wouldn’t hurt you, but it looks like I accidentally did,” he finally gritted out, self-loathing thickening his words.

Quint gave him a searching look in return. “How do you mean?” he asked, seeming like he wanted to say more, but then deciding not to.

Bond had another flicker of those emotions that said he wasn’t sure whether to jump off a cliff or laugh.  “I’ve only kissed Sam once,” he finally just stated, and then waited to see what reaction that got, and whether the truth was correct in this occasion.  Sometimes, the downside of lying all the time was that telling the truth felt strange - like a nocturnal creature venturing forth into daylight.

Quint looked taken aback. “Really? Just once? But… _Why_?”

“Because she didn’t need me to do it again,” Bond shrugged, like that made sense, and then saw from Q’s face that it didn’t.  “Q, what Sam and I did…” the agent tried again, disliking the act of explaining.  He hated even writing up mission reports, damn it, and this was harder by far.  “...Was uncomplicated.  She’d just had people die on her, and I knew the feeling.  Some people say ‘I understand’ in situations like that, but it always sounds like a lie and usually is, so I used a different tactic.”  His gazed was hopeful that Q was understanding now.  “Sometimes there are better ways to show sympathy, and I naturally tend towards more physical ones.  Fuck…”  Now he chuckled and looked skyward for a second, as if just realizing it, “Every time I try and talk to _you_ , I end up getting physical.”  One blue eye slipped down to meet Q’s gaze cheekily, as he added, “You have no idea how hard it is to hold still right now.”

Quint chuckled. “Seems like a waste  though, she’s an amazing woman,” he said, contemplatively. “Even I can see that.” Then he turned to Bond, a mischievous glint in his eye. “And who says I _want_ you to hold still?”

“Easy, Q,” Bond chuckled, but his voice had dropped low again and his eyes held definite interest, “Talk first - then on to faster and funner things.  We were talking about Sam, remember?  Sam and her frankly amazing body?  I’m not disagreeing with you in the slightest, but you should know that my job throws me in with gorgeous women on a regular basis.”  He shrugged.  “Although more than half of them try and kill me, whereas Sam will only try and kill me if I break another bone or try and kiss her again.”

Quint laughed. “I can think of another thing or two that’ll do the trick…” he said, grin firmly in place, although he did look a bit put-out at the rebuffal. “So you and Sam… There’s really nothing going on?” he let out a sheepish laugh. “Well, that’s one way of making an idiot of myself, I suppose. Sorry.”

“The fact that it never crossed my mind that you would think that makes the idiocy mutual,” Bond was graceful enough to admit, grimacing before finally unfolding his arms.  Mischief lit his eyes again, “Now, we were talking about how it would be mutually beneficial if I stopped staying still, correct?” he teased in a low rumble of a voice that would have been a purr if it weren’t for the wonderfully rough edges.

“Quite,” Quint said primly, not entirely succeeding in keeping the smirk off his face, “I must say, after that demonstration this morning, today’s self-defence class suddenly seemed wholly unsatisfactory…” He kept a straight face for a moment longer, but then couldn’t help the grin that broke out at his own silliness.  

“Oh, I couldn’t agree more,” Bond agreed and closed the distance between them, hands immediately closing around Q’s arms as he latched onto his mouth.

Quint reacted without hesitation, his own arms sliding around Bond’s waist to try and drag the man closer, his mouth moving with Bond’s, before he moved to deepen the kiss.  With a low sound that might have been amusement or approval or a mix of both, Bond let him, mouth opening - it was a trap, however, because while Bond seemed more than willing to let Q dominate the kiss, it was only because Bond had many, many better things he could be doing with his hands.  

The shirt was rucked up to the middle of Q’s ribs with more speed than should have been possible, especially for a man with one bandaged hand and a splinted arm.  “I hate your shirts,” Bond growled into his mouth, “I don’t care what they look like or what they have on them, I hate them because you’re _wearing them_.”  Another growled vibrated from Bond’s chest into Q’s as the larger man’s hands tried to decide whether to just give up and slide under the shirt, or continue trying to remove it at the risk of breaking contact with Q’s mouth.  The level of anger this caused the man to radiate was like standing close enough to a fire to see its crackling core.

Quint chuckled and gave in. He leaned back, removed the t-shirt and seamlessly moved on to Bond’s button-down. “Easy for you to say, I’m fairly sure no one will mind you walking around shirtless,” Quint laughed, easing a hand over Bond’s chest through the shirt. “Besides, you say you hate my shirts, but at least _those_ don’t have buttons,” he said vindictively. Bond wasn’t helping much either, instead taking advantage of the fact that Q was now shirtless and therefore taking up a lot for his attention.  It was hard to undo buttons when the man wearing the shirt was so close, and presently testing out whether he’d be rebuffed for biting down on Q’s shoulder.

Quint groaned, fisting his hand in the shirt he was currently trying to unbutton, and let his head fall back, exposing his neck.  

“God, Q, I could have you walking around shirtless all day for this,” Bond argued back in the short seconds it took to switch his mouth over, finding Q’s pulse beneath his jaw - forcing his head back further in the process - and sucking as he felt Q’s heart-rate increase.  Strong arms once again folded behind Q’s back kept him pinned in that arched position, while Bond’s buttons were pretty much forgotten.

Quint keened at the attention. His whole upper body was bent in one long graceful arch, his hands still  fisted in Bond’s shirt. It was only when Bond let up a little that he snorted. “I’m a scarecrow,” he said, matter of factly, “It’s not my best feature and we both know it.” he laughed, not seeming disturbed by this in the slightest. Any answer Bond might’ve given to that was broken off when Quint attacked his mouth with new fervor.

This time, either because of Q’s unexpected words or some other itch he wanted to scratch, Bond didn’t give in as easily - in fact, without any warning but a tightening of his grip, he hooked a foot behind Q’s ankle and neatly unbalanced him.  If Bond had less muscle and the ground weren’t so sandy, the landing would have been a disaster.  Instead, it was only mildly awkward, and Q’s breath was knocked out of him only a little - a fact that Bond took full advantage off by licking a stripe from the hollow of his throat up to the underside of his chin.  Bond was always most comfortable when using his power, and even now barely remembered to keep weight off his right arm as he hovered over the slim man he now had under him in the sand.  Before Q could get his breath back, Bond pressed his head to the side - left cheek nearly touching soft particles of sand - with open-mouthed kisses, reaching Q’s ear to start speaking in a low, husky rasp, “And what the hell makes-?”

A loud gasp made both of them look up. Ishya was standing all of five meters away, hands slapped over her mouth and eyes wide. “I-” she started, “I’m so-”

Quint quickly pushed Bond off him, sitting up and fumbling to get his glasses properly situated on his nose. “Ishya,” he said, managing to sound only a little breathless, “Calm down, what’s going on.” She looked about ready to burst into tears.

“It’s Raman,” she finally got out, “I’m- I’m so sorry for interrupting, but it’s Raman. He’s gone, and we can’t find him anywhere, and he said to Hasan he was going to get some more water and now no one's seen him since he went and it’s been ages! And Sam said to get you, but you’re busy and-”

Quint scrambled to get up and wrapped  an arm around Ishya’s shoulders. “Shhh don’t worry about that. This is much more important. Sorry you had to see that Ishya, and thank you for calling us… Bond?”

The man was already back on his feet, and while he didn’t look particularly ashamed to have been caught with Q, he also already looked as if nothing untoward had happened - for a man who hadn’t seen a proper bath in days, he looked incredibly composed.  “Go back to Sam.  We’ll follow you, and find out where he is,” the man ordered immediately, eyes hard and dangerous but also full of control that came from living a life where complicated, dangerous situations were as common as rain.  Q’s shirt was tossed to him.

Quint grabbed his shirt and then Ishya’s shoulder. “No, wait, we’ll walk with you. Where are the others? Are they searching for us as well?”

Ishya nodded and Quint’s face grew very serious. “Alright, here’s what’s going to happen.” He dragged his shirt over his head. “We’re bringing you to Sam, and the two of you are going to stay by the fire and the other passengers. Then Bond and I are first getting Hasan and Tara, and they are also going to stay there in case…” he hesitated a moment, “In case we were wrong and Raman just returns on his own. Then Bond and I will go out into the jungle and try to find Raman alright? We’ll solve this!”

“Hasan’s not going to let you go alone,” Ishya said, her voice pinched with tears she wasn’t shedding.

“Why not?” he placed the arm around her shoulders again and started leading her back to the fire, expecting Bond to follow.

“He… Well…” she gave him fugitive loo, but then she looked around at Bond and shrugged. “He kind of likes Raman. Like, like-likes. He doesn’t think anyone knows, but it’s so obvious! And I didn’t tell anyone because, well, that’s up to him right? But Hasan’ll want to come and save Raman. Why are boys always so _stupid_?”

Bond blinked, shooting Q a brief look as if to say, ‘ _Should we be offended_?’ while otherwise keeping himself silent and following.  If he had a problem with Q’s plan, he either wasn’t saying it or was waiting for more complete information before making his own opinions.

“Hell if I know, Ishya, hell if I know,” Quint said with more conviction than he probably should, considering his own gender.

“You’ll find him, right?”

Quint nodded. “We will, promise, but for that I need to know that the rest of you are safe, and the safest I can make you right now is with Sam and all the other people by the fire.”

She nodded. “You think it’s Mr. Silva, too, don’t you?” she finally asked, looking up at Quint. For all that she looked like she was frail enough to break at any moment, there was intelligence and determination shining through in her eyes now that she had calmed down enough.

“For Silva’s sake, hopefully Raman is just lost,” Bond growled, low and venomous.  He picked up the pace, spearheaded ahead of the other two as if they were a flock of birds and he was cutting the air ahead of them.  Reflexively, Ishya and Q sped up, following.

They found Sam by the infirmary, and Quint all but ordered her to come along, a steel in his voice that only ever seemed to bare itself when there was a crisis. They left the two women by the fire, Sam only agreeing to stay when Bond pointed out that he needed someone with actual self-defence skills there to protect the kids, if Silva came after them.

Quint gave her a faint smirk. “He’s right. I’m pretty sure you’re scarier than Bond, all things put together… Which is why we need you here. Sorry.”

Sam snorted, but seemed to accept it nonetheless. Tara found them on her own, reporting that she’d seen hide nor hair of Raman or Q and Bond before spotting them right behind Sam.

“You three stay here, and stay with people. Don’t let anyone wander off alone, okay? We’re going to find Hasan and get him to come back here, and then we’re going to find Raman. Don’t go off on your own, you hear me? Even Bond and I are staying together. That man is dangerous!” He was looking directly at Tara now, his eyes dark and serious and determined. “Please?” That last bit was soft and for all that she might’ve rebelled seconds before, she sunk in on herself and nodded, wrapping an arm around Ishya’s shoulders.

“I hate this,” was all she said.

Sam smiled at her sourly. “We all do, dear… Now dinner is almost ready, try not to be too late for it, would you?” she said, raising an eyebrow at Bond and Quint. Quint knew it was the closest to a ‘good luck, come back safely’ they were going to get from her.

As with earlier, Bond took off first, as if knowing precisely what he was doing - or perhaps he’d magically turned into a Hasan-seeking-missile in the past five minutes.  Precisely how Bond found Hasan Q could only guess at, but as Bond moved past people he seemed to be watching their reactions, fine-tuning his course until it was obvious that there was tension and unease that had nothing at all to do with the brutal-looking gunmen stalking through their midst.  Ultimately, Hasan came to them, but only because 007 put himself and Q right in the kid's path, and Hasan ran right into the agent.  Bond’s healing ribs must have protested under the impact, but the man’s face didn’t show it.  

“B-B-Bond! Quint!” Hasan’s large, dark eyes flew between them, while Bond’s hands steadied his shoulders. Everyone was watching the teen with unease, and Q realized that this was what Bond had been doing: he’d placed his bets on the possibility that Hasan knew that something had happened, and that the teenager would be panicked or at least making people around him alarmed. Bond had simply followed that threat of anxiety to its source.

Hasan was clutching something in his hands, tightly - it looked like a scrap of cloth. He looked down at it and nearly burst into tears, but his expression was a fusion of too much anxiety to handle and a sizzling anger that was like a knife in the hands of the desperate. Because he knew Q more than Bond, the boy’s eyes suddenly latched onto the bespectacled man, and when he lurched towards him, James allowed it, instead stepping back to look around like a watchful bodyguard, ensuring that people kept their distance while Hasan unfolded his fingers from around the ragged square of cloth to show disturbing red patterns on the pale-green material.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they fight... Each other.

 “This… This is from the shirt Raman was wearing,” Hasan said, and at the same time, it became clear that the patterns were words… Which meant that the dark red was likely blood. “I found it on your bed…! Why would someone put this on your bed?” Hasan’s voice started to rise, not with accusation but simply with sharp, brittle panic. A touch of Quint’s hand to his shoulder had him calming down, and the teen recovered quickly, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths, although he jumped at a hand on his wrist - it was just Bond, however.

“Sorry,” Bond murmured, and it was possibly the most sincere apology that Quint had ever heard from the man - and certainly the softest. Slowly, in case he was met with resistance, Bond pried the cloth out of Hasan’s hand to read it.

_Since you found yourself a friend, I decided the do the same! Follow the trail and I’ll give you answers. Ignore me, and I’ll give you a corpse. Meet you at the river._

When the cloth was safely in Bond’s hands, Quint pulled Hasan into a hug. For a moment, the boy struggled, but then he allowed himself to fold in Quint’s arms.

“I’m going to kill him!” Hasan called out, his voice muffled, but obviously completely sincere. “He took Raman! I’m going to kill him!”

Unexpectedly, Bond stepped close. Up until now, he’d been closed off like a wall, full of ice and anger - impenetrable. Now, however, something softened in his eyes just enough for the ice to become molten. It was still an emotion related to fury, but the hand he put on the teenager’s shoulder was supportive, while the squeeze was encouraging and powerful. “No, you’re not,” the man said bluntly, then added with a brutal, humorless smile that only Q saw, “But only because there’s no way you’ll get to him before I do.”  _This_  was the smile of the MI6 assassin that had been sent after Q - not the smile of the man who’d stood with him in the sea, who’d stubbornly slept not only beside him but  _with_  him, who’d taught self-defense with unexpected patience and skill. No, this smile said that he’d probably kill Silva in ways that Hasan didn’t even know existed, although 007 couldn’t very well tell the kid that.

Quint gave a solemn nod, but Hasan squeezed his eyes closed and wildly shook his head. “No! You don’t get it and you don’t get to say that, damn it! I’ll find Raman and I’ll get him back and I’ll kill Siva and then- then-”

Quint hadn’t let go of the boy even when he was shaking and trying to push Quint away. It was only when he subsided, when he ran out of steam and just stood there, body tense and hands in fists, that he took a step back.

“Hasan, listen to me, please. Bond- Bond is trained for these sorts of things-” he flinched at the thought that he was skirting dangerously close to telling Bond’s secret, but he had to convince Hasan to stay here. Even if the boy might’ve been a great help in any other situation, in the state he was right now… Silva would use it. He would use it and then he’d use Hasan as well as Raman and they’d have two hostages to worry about. Quint was sure of it. “- And Bond and me, we’ve been working out a way to get to Silva since he left. We’ve got this covered Hasan, we’ve got this. Let us go. If we don’t come back, if we fail, then we need you to be backup.”

Hasan did not look convinced and Quint shot Bond a pleading look. People were not his forte, damn it!

This whole time, Bond had been watching with an almost-raised eyebrow (a tiny flash of emotion just barely scraping its way past his mask), and it was hard to tell precisely what emotion it was meant to convey. He could have been anywhere from impressed to derisive regarding Q’s little speech, but he was also rolling his right wrist subconsciously in little swivels that didn’t quite jar his cracked bones - seeing as that was his gun hand, it was probably aching for a weapon. Instead of either correcting what Q had said or adding onto it, he just murmured, “We’ve gotta move, Q. Do you need to walk him back?”

“ _We_  need to walk him back,” Quint said, decisively. “After that, we go on like we planned.” If only because, if they didn’t leave Hasan with Sam and the girls, he was pretty sure the boy would try and go after Silva on his own. “No one stays alone, remember?” Not until they went on as they’d planned all along, anyway. Quint saw no reason why they would let Silva’s actions change their plan. As a matter of fact, it only made it more effective. Silva had challenged Quint personally. He’d be all the more focussed on Quint for it.

Bond continued to look irked for a moment, irritation flickering across his features, but ultimately there was a nod included in his scowl, and he flicked his eyes back the way they’d come instead of speaking. He let Q herd Hasan, who’d either seen Q’s logic and quieted or had gone into shock. Perhaps this was long overdue: after all, the teenagers had been subjected to a violent plane crash, just like everyone else. Perhaps realizing this, Bond’s eyes softened fractionally, and he slipped around like the big wraith he was to walk on the other side of Hasan from Q. It as entirely likely he did this to prevent the teen from bolting, but maybe there was a supportive, compassionate gesture hidden in there somewhere. “Come on then,” he muttered, tone wrapped up his gruffness even while his gun-hand stopped its impatient flexing. He looked calmer for it - more focused. Ironically, the moment he stopped itching for his gun, Bond also looked more deadly. Pale blue eyes continued to scan the area around them in smooth, efficient strokes like a whetstone over a blade.

When they approached the fire, Sam, Ishya and Tara quickly swarmed around them. Quint and Bond both flanked Hasan for a moment longer before stepping back. For the slightest moment, Quint met Sam’s eyes and a grim understanding passed between the two of them. She would keep an eye on the boy. Quint gave a last determined nod before turning around, Bond falling in step with him.

It felt almost symbolic, the two of them, side by side, turning their back on the light of the campfire and the people they trusted and cared for, walking into the direction of the dark forest and the threat of violence.

“I see no reason to deviate from our plan. We play at having a fight and I go on alone. You follow me. How does that sound?”

“Obsolete,” Bond growled, but respectfully kept his voice low and quiet - if any of the passengers were close enough to listen, they still wouldn't hear anything, or even notice that there was dissent coming from the larger man, “That plan was before Silva took the initiative and kidnapped a kid. He already knows too much, and has shifted the game.”

“And he’ll be more likely to give you an in, an opportunity, when he’s focused on me. That’s more likely to happen when he thinks I’m on my own. I told Hasan to stay behind because he’s too emotional to act rationally, Bond, don’t make make me regret that choice by acting like a teenaged kid whose lover has just been taken rather than a trained secret agent. Please…”

Something in the wording had Bond halting fast enough that the sand sprayed under his feet, head jerking to Q. He just stared at him a moment as both stopped walking, and then he was crowding the smaller man backwards, wordlessly.

Quint looked back up at him defiantly, but didn’t respond, just stared at Bond through his cracked glasses.

“Q…” Bond started to growl, then cut off, looking away and grinding his teeth in very obvious frustration. He’d walked up until the two of them were almost touching, personal space obviously something that only  _normal_  people worried about, and now clenched his fists as if restraining himself. “Q, that plan was already dangerous before Silva got himself a bargaining chip! I’m not renegéing on this plan because of emotions, I’m…!” He bit the words off again, very obviously giving it away for the lie it was as he jerked his attention to glare off at nothing over Q’s shoulder. His hands continued to clench and unclench now, all of him vibrating with enough energy to be more than dangerous.

“You’re renegéing on it because you feel uncomfortable with anyone but you taking a position where they will be vulnerable to Silva and likely to be hurt,” Quint said matter of factly, tone even and emotionless. “However, the thing you are forgetting is that in this plan, while I might be put in a position where I could come to harm, you are put in a position where you can do something about that. If we both head in like a pair of bullheaded idiots, Silva has us right where he wants us, exactly how he wants us and you can be sure he’s prepared. I won’t put you, Raman  _or_  myself at risk like that Bond, and neither should you.”

The speech had the effect of deepening Bond’s scowl for a moment, to the point where it looked like he was seriously considering overpowering Q to get his way. However, it was either training or just general common-sense that won out, because the tension bled out of Bond. He still surprised Q with a quick press of lips to his forehead, rustling tangles of dark hair as he leaned in close then pulled away. “Fine then. What’s next?” he gave in, eyes tight and unhappy but voice level and determined.

Quint smiled and for a second, it was soft. Then his eyes hardened and his mind started running. His hand though, found Bond’s cheek and stayed there, simply cradling his jaw. “Next is I yell at you some more and stalk off into the woods, towards the spring. You follow at a distance. You know the terrain, Bond, think. Use that brain of yours. What’s a tactical position for you to be in? Is there a specific place you want me to move to?” From one moment to the next, Quint’s voice went from quiet and sweet to harsh and loud. “Fine than! Go back! And you can go fuck yourself while you’re at it! I’m not leaving him! I’ll bloody well go alone if I have to!”

It took a flicker of a second for Bond to catch up and compensate, and it was visible in his eyes when he went from very human and tense to the agent MI6 had trained him to be. It as almost as if his eyes turned mechanical, deadly blue chips set into his face. He yelled back with surprising volume, doing a good job of mimicking the voice of someone angrily chasing their partner off, “You little fucking  _shit_! You think you know how to track a person?! You’ll either be lost in ten minutes or running back here!” The faked anger in his tone made his words roll, the crescendo of a fire as it rippled over wood. Suddenly Bond’s hand curled around the back of Q’s neck, pulling him close as his volume dropped drastically to just a whisper, “Go. Whatever path you pick will work. If not...I’ll get creative.” He shrugged. “And for the record, you are a little shit, but the path to the creek is well-worn by now. Getting lost won’t be a problem.”

Quint flinched at the volume and aggression, an involuntary movement that he quickly compensated for by righting his shoulders and getting back into Bond’s face. “You asshole! You fucking asshole!” he yelled, voice pinched and loud. “Fine! See if I fucking care! I don’t need an old arrogant son of a bitch like you anyway! Fuck off!” And with that, he turned around and stalked right into the treeline, everything about him tense.

If Q had turned around, he would have seen Bond already gone, foregoing any sort of answer in favor of just disappearing.

The jungle was no more or less damp and dark and overgrown than it had ever been before. Despite this, it felt more… More. Just more. After only half a minute or so, Q was forced to slow down as he picked his way through the underbrush, fervently hoping that he was going in a direction that would ultimately put him on the path to the spring and hopefully, Silva.

Around him, the sounds of birds and insects and other things he did not want to think about grew more oppressive. He’d managed to tune them out up till now, either too tired or too preoccupied to pay attention, but here, deeper in the jungle, with nightfall only an hour past and far from fires and people, the sounds were almost overwhelming.

Q stumbled and almost fell when the heavy underbrush suddenly gave way to the beaten path that led to the spring. He heaved a sigh of relief, trying to determine just how far from the beach he was.

It was no use. He really didn't know. That was a problem: He needed to know how far along he was, how close to Silva, if he wanted to stand a fighting chance. He wondered where Bond was. If the man was close by, watching, or keeping his distance. He hoped the man had a better idea of their relative location and distance.

As it was, there was nothing for it. Quint looked in both directions of the path, then started following it towards the spring, not making much of an effort to keep himself hidden. Let Silva come, he thought grimly, let the bastard come.

As it turned out, Q wasn't quite that lucky: the spring was found, but Silva was not. Instead, there was just another rag of familiar cloth with bloody writing on it.

_‘Congrats on making it this far. Now we get to find out if James is around. Can you track me?’_

Bond’s voice growled out from right behind Q, with no sound of footsteps to show that he’d actually come up that close, “Shit.”

Quint nearly jumped out of his skin. “I thought you were going to keep your distance unless Silva’s in sight?” he whispered furiously, then jumped again at how loud his voice had sounded in the jungle, where human noises stood out like a sore thumb.

“No point. He’s not nearby,” Bond murmured before relieving Q of the next gristly note that Silva had left them. His eye skimmed over it. “Besides that, he seems to at least suspect that I’m still nearby, although I suppose it could be that he set this up before we ripped each other a new one down at the beach.” He didn't sound troubled by the fake argument - if anything, he sounded alert and calm, in his element. “So there are two choices, as I see it, and correct me if I’m wrong: either we admit that we’re working together and I track Silva - which I definitely can - or we call his bluff and try to continue without my obvious help.” Blue eyes flicked up to Q, handing back the note with its gleefully bloody letters. “Your call.”

Quint sighed. “Call me mad, but I still feel safer with you at my back than at my side.” It was true, too. The reasoning might be all backwards, but it was true. If Bond was in sight, in the thick of it, he might be able to respond a little quicker, but Quint was pretty sure that it would not weigh up against the advantage of surprise and range of movement that the shadows would give Bond. Besides, Silva was like a cat: He wanted to play before he would kill and he’d already proven himself fascinated with Quint. He wouldn't kill him right away. Quiny would bet money on that.

Perhaps Bond was thinking the same - that Silva would enjoy the game, even if that game was just Quint stumbling around and unsuccessfully trying to track him - because after a grumble in his throat, he nodded. “So - stick to the old plan then? Have I mentioned how much I fucking hate the old plan?” He looked down moodily, touching his gun as if it were a twisted sort of security blanket, although his next little growl was borderline adorable, “Please tell me I get to shoot someone in the next hour.”

Maybe ‘adorable’ was the wrong word for it.

Quint rolled his eyes. “If it were up to me, Bond, you’d get to shoot someone in the next five minutes. Sadly, there is not much I can do about it. The faster we get the move on though…” He sighed and rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

~*~

Tracking Silva wasn't easy, but it wasn't impossible. Either Silva underestimated Bond’s tracking skills or he didn't really believe that Quint had taken the agent along - although at some points, it was all just one big jumble of trees and bush. True to his word, though, instead of appearing to help Quint along, Bond stayed a ghost. He may as well have left Quint entirely for all the agent showed himself, and although it was killing him to watch Q stumble around... He let him. That was the plan. If Silva really was getting a kick out of predicting Bond’s involvement, then they weren't going to give him the satisfaction of drawing Bond into the open so easily. That meant, unfortunately, that Quint had to coordinate as best he could until Silva grew bored with waiting and playing games. 

And Bond burned hotter and hotter with impotent temper in every second that passed.

Quint, in the meanwhile, was trudging through the jungle with a determined scowl on his face, looking for clues and traces of someone passing through as best as he could. His movements were inept and the sounds he made loud and foreign in the jungle’s hushed din. Silva would have no trouble finding him, that was for sure…

Quint’s scowl deepened when he stumbled for what had to be the fifth time and nearly fell. He caught himself on a tree, gave it a disgusted look but then set his jaw and struggled on, his eyes kept on the ground and plants, obviously looking for traces of someone else making their way through the quickly thickening jungle.

“Well then, you’re a trickier creature than I thought, Quint,” a smooth voice suddenly drifted in, superiority wrapped in a conflicted tangle of amusement and annoyance, “Although, I have to ask: are you really stupid enough to come and find me without your 00-agent in tow?”

All of Bond’s muscles locked and then loosened, the tension of a tiger as it readied itself and settled into a lethal crouch - the difference was, with Bond, it included bringing up his gun in both hands and aiming. For all that he was actually a bit bigger than Bond, Silver was a sneaky bastard, sneaky enough that 007 knew the man had to have had training. It just so happened that Bond had been sweeping around to Q’s left and Silva had appeared to the right, putting Q in the middle at the moment. That wouldn't have stalled Bond for more than seconds, however, if it weren't for one disturbing fact: Silva was  _alone_. Of the boy, Raman, there was only a torn T-shirt, the one Silva had been using to get their attention with his notes written in blood. The pale man was swinging it idly in his left-hand, showing a bit of blood on the collar.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the authors are really very sorry, and hiding away from the raging hordes and their pitchforks under their beds.

Multiple possibilities played through Bond’s head at once - numerous scenarios tied between himself, Q, Silva, and that damned shirt. Raman could be completely elsewhere and safe, gallivanting away from the other survivors and unaware of the hysteria he was causing. Raman could also be dead already, throat slit to write a few notes to lure in Q and/or Bond. There was also a third option, in which Silva had the boy hidden away somewhere, in which case… The agent snarled almost soundlessly in his throat, a vibration of utter fury that didn’t show as he remained perfectly still and hidden.

In which case, he couldn’t shoot Silva and risk killing him before they found out where Raman was. If Silva died without telling, there was every possibility that the kidnapped teen would die before they found him on their own.

Bond’s eyes - the only part of him that moved - darted between Q and Silva, seeing the healthy distance of about a stone’s-throw between them and still wanting nothing more than to call Q back to him. If Silva had enough training to stalk that quietly, fight that brutally, and manipulate a situation like this, then he was more than dangerous enough to make up for gap between himself and his prey. So far, he hadn’t moved closer, merely smiling from a distance as he got Q’s attention. Guiltily - misery diggings its claws into the backs of his ribs and tearing - Bond wondered if Q was thinking of him, and the fact that he wasn’t doing shit about the situation. After all, the agreement had been for Q to play bait so that Bond could swing in for the kill at the perfect moment.

Instead, regret like a rotting sickness in his gut, James lowered his gun and forced himself to just watch. He couldn’t do anything unless he wanted to choose Q’s life over the teen’s, and he was smart enough to know that the hacker would hate him for eternity if he chose the latter over the former. James scowled, temper and frustration showing through. “I’m still here, Q,” he whispered to himself, muscles flexing restlessly while he let the shadows cling to him.

He’d never itched to put a bullet in someone so much in his life.

Quint had turned towards the voice the moment it had disturbed the relative peace around him. He was now glaring at Silva, at the shirt and at the woods at large. “What do you want?” he asked, refusing to acknowledge the question or the dig at his intelligence.

“I’m shocked as your callousness, Quint,” Silva dodged his question in turn, lifting a hand to his chest in an imitation of an injured gestured - it was ruined by the fact that it was the hand holding Raman’s shirt, highlighting the blood that speckled the collar. “Not even a friendly hello for an old friend?” There was a low chuckle as the unexpected wording sank in, before Silva took the opening to stab his words in deeper, “Not even a question regarding a certain boy whom I believe usually tags after you? His name escapes me...”

Q gritted his teeth. “Let me repeat myself: What do you want?” His shoulders were tense and his hands fisted, but his voice was cold and emotionless, as if, once again, Q had walled away all of them, only focussing on the situation at hand.

The continual rebuff finally had Silva’s smile slipping a little, or at least hardening into something uglier on his face. His canted eyes remained unwaveringly on Q’s face. “Why, to have a chat, of course.”

“A chat about what?”

“How about a little hacking job you did?” Silva finally began to circle down to the point like a carrion bird wheeling in towards a carcass, “Tell me, Q, how did you get James wrapped around your finger when his actual reason for getting on that plane was to assassinate you?”

Quint stared at him for a long moment. “How…?” he asked, and Bond - still fighting to stay still within the thicker shadows of the trees - was fairly sure his mouth would be hanging open, if it wasn’t for the fact that his jaw was still clenched so hard it must’ve hurt.

Silva’s smile spread further with pure delight, and he spread his arms like a benevolent deity before dipping into a shallow bow. There was still blood and a cut on his shirt from where Bond had slashed him with glass, but he moved as if the injury didn’t trouble him. “You say Quint - I say Q. You say Silva… Care to finish this line of thought, Q? I’ve always loved your cleverness.”

“Silverfish…!” It wasn’t more than a whisper, venomous in Quint’s mouth. He’d had his suspicions but… It just seemed too much of a coincidence. Too farfetched that the man would put himself on a plane he must’ve caused the crash of.

“I admit that this wasn’t precisely how I planned to finally meet face-to-face,” Silva shrugged with an easy roll of broad shoulders, “but even I cannot predict plane-crashes, I suppose. Although, I admit, I was somewhat charmed by the little drama that has played out since. I’m still half-expecting your delightful pet assassin to jump out any minute now.”

“But why- If you set Bond on my trail, why would you put yourself in danger like that?” Quint couldn’t help it. He needed to know, needed to understand. Silverfish - Silva - had seemed like a smart person. Why, when everything had gone according to his plan, would he do something like that? It just didn’t make sense…

“To ensure _you_ didn’t die, of course,” Silva replied magnanimously, “You’re a clever boy, Q, but ultimately I knew you’d need help in dealing with a 00-agent. Although it seems I was perhaps mistaken…?” The grin widened, the edges creeping towards Silva’s ears in a tight-lipped leer. “For shame, Q - sleeping with the enemy. You realize that he’d still kill you in a heartbeat, don’t you?”

Quint stalled for a moment, then shook himself. “Why send MI6 after me and then come and save me? That makes no sense whatsoever,” he said, the incredulousness in his voice wholly real. He cast another look around the jungle.

Silva’s eyes followed the look, something cunning glinting in them as his smile grew quietly knowing. “To prove who is on your side and who isn’t, of course. I may have… perhaps… let MI6 find your hack, but they would have chased you anyway, the person who broke into their nice, safe computers. There’s nothing you can say to them to make them see you as anything less than an unconscionable threat, no matter what James might have told you. So, instead of waiting to see how long it would be before you inevitably met up with your enemies...I forced the timetable. That way, you’d also have friends in high places when it happened.” He smirked unabashedly at his joke, referencing the plane that ironically hadn’t stayed ‘in high places’ very long.

“And then you kidnapped my friend.” It was a statement, although the slightest hint of wry humour showed through.

The smile fell from Silva’s face, but only to be replaced by an equally fake look of pleading. Silva’s spread his arms beseechingly. “A necessary action, Q - you see, now that we’ve crash-landed here, I’ve got a bit of a problem. Even if darling James doesn’t kill me before help arrives - help I don’t doubt you could summon, if you had your computer-” The start of this whole mess raised its ugly head, and if there had been an doubt that Silva had Q’s computer before now, that doubt was quite gone as Silva grinned fleetingly. “-I need a head start when we get off this island, something I don’t see myself getting if James is right along with us. So.” He blinked once, eyes reptilian and vicious as they settled again on Q’s face. “You have a choice, Q dear. Give me James. Or I kill one of your brats.”

Quint stared. He might’ve been able to keep himself together up till now, but this… This was beyond words. “You-” he started, then stopped, physically took a step back, took a moment to reconsider. “And you’ll kill James instead, yes?” he asked, finally.

“I can see how that idea offends you,” Silva soothed with a curl of his mouth, “So, no. Break at least one of his legs so he can’t follow me - yes. So, really, this should be an easy decision for you. If you say no to me now, I’ll just go back and perhaps break - Raman is his name, yes? - Raman’s legs. That sounds quite fair.” He continued to muse out loud. It was like he seemed to like the distress and pain he was seeing in Q’s eyes. “Children heal fast, don’t they? Although, with their bones still growing, I imagine he’ll never walk quite right again.” Silva paused suddenly, canting his head, putting on a slight pout as he chided, “You want to kill me right now, don’t you?”

Quint stared at Silva neutrally. “Quite,” he said, tones clipped, matter of fact. “But as that does not seem to be an option right now… I agree to your terms. However, if I am to deliver Bond to you, I want to see Raman first.”

“No no no, Q,” Silva replied back, a slight musical tone making his words all the more teasing, “I saw your eyes go to the trees. He really is here, isn’t he? My, but he’s quiet.” Silva regarded the trees with something like awe, or a manic respect that only madmen hold for their enemies. “If I lead you to your teenage friend, I lose my advantage. I’m not a fool, Q.” He gave the bespectacled man a patronizing look, clucking his tongue. “You should know that from our time spent hacking together.” Turning away before there could be a response, he shouted to the forest at large, “Bond!” Silva anwered.

Quint gave him an incredulous look. “Bond? You think I’ve been looking for _Bond_? I’ve been trying to catch sight of Raman. If he’s still alive and well as well as your bargaining chip, you would not leave him far from where you are. Also, I’m quite aware that, if I were to bring you Bond, you would have the advantage: After all, I have no doubt that you could kill Bond and quite probably me before we ever spotted you in this jungle. For all I know, Raman could be dead and I could walk both of us into your trap for no reason whatsoever. No. Raman lives, and I get to see him right now, or there is no deal and no matter how angry he might be with me now, I’ve no doubt he’ll come after you with relish if I don’t return…”

“Clever. Clever like I always thought,” Silva purred, and it was as if his words had the capacity to reach out and stroke slowly, “Yes, you’re right - your boy is nearby. And I know you’re not out here looking for James, although I still doubt that he’s far off either. But you’re missing something, Q.”

“Enlighten me.”

Silva was more than happy to oblige. Gods, but the man did love the sound of his own voice. Hopefully, by this point, Bond was silently taking his cue to go and scout the immediate area for Raman. “You said I could kill you - and, yes, I could.” He shrugged as easily as Bond did when speaking about dead. “But I won’t - that’s what you don’t understand. I want you alive, Q, and that’s why I’m even offering to leave your James alive. Call it… a peace offering. An opening bargain. You have skills I want, and we have a common hatred for MI6… even if you have a taste for 00-agent.” He needled at that point again, smirking lewdly. “Still, if it means having you on my side, I’d be able to let at least one agent live, even if I can’t let him walk fast enough to follow me.”

Quint gave him a level look. “Counter offer. You take me and let Raman go. Raman fetches Bond. We both know that Bond will come, even though I’m not his most favourite person right now. I contact the authorities and we get off this bloody island and all of us go their merry way.”

“Hmm…” Silva canted his head, actually seeming to consider this. “Not a poor deal. Congratulations on your negotiation tactics, Q.” He clapped his hands a few times, the slightest hitch in the movement finally giving away his injury as the tear in his chest no doubt twinged. Then, however, he began to start walking closer. “But can you assure me that James isn’t really here? Isn’t actually watching?” The smile on his face grew curious and suggestive as he moved nearer.

Quint’s answer carried a hint of irritation. “Of course I can’t, save walking all the way back to the beach to show you he’s there, which is not something I am going to do without knowing Raman is alright.”

By this point, Silva had halved the distance between them, and he’d soon be within touching distance. Occasionally, sly, canted eyes would flick to the surrounding trees, a curious cat waiting to see if an angry mother owl would launch towards him now that he was stalking towards Q. “Or I could provoke him out,” Silva posed the idea with obvious glee.

“And how do you propose you do this?” Quint asked, refusing to step back or let himself be affected.

“Well, let’s see…” Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. By this point, Silva was close enough to touch, and did so as he reached out and ran his fingertips over the curve of Q’s right shoulder, a light touch that could easily turn deadly as this distance. There wasn’t so much as a rustle from the surrounding trees, however, and that was making Silva smile much more broadly than was necessary. “I could threaten you…” The hand tightened a bit, thumb pressing down painfully against Q’s collarbone - sure to leave a bruise. “...Or I could rile up those possessive instincts we both know James has.” Again, Silva’s hand shifted, softening and tilting, coming up in a slow stroke along Q’s neck. Silva only dropped his hand when a shudder rocked his arm, a painful reminder that 007 had slashed his chest not long ago. Sickeningly, though, the smile never faded.

Quint stood stock still as he bore Silva’s touches. “He’s not here, and if you’re trying to convince me to work with you, Silverfish, you’re doing a terrible job.” His voice was still mild, but there was a pinched quality to it belying his calm.

“Perhaps,” Silva conceded, that disturbing expression still on his face, although it had hardened around the edges until it looked more threatening. “Do you want to hear a story, Q? Nothing long, I promise. Just a bit more information that I think you should know.” Without waiting for a response, Silva backed up another step, going so far as to turn his back on Q and pace a bit, for all the world carefree despite his continued hints about 007’s presence. “You see, without connections like James has, I couldn’t bring anything clearly weaponized on the plane - how, then, was I supposed to protect you? Barehanded, I’m quite deadly, but I dislike being at a disadvantage. So…” He stopped and turned back to Q, nearly gleeful as he finished, “I decided on poison. Something that didn’t need to be carried in large quantities, deadly to even touch because it would sink through the skin. Sadly, it got a bit diluted, what with our swim from the plane to this island. Do you see where I’m going with this, Q, dear?”

Quint just stared at him, eyes wide, body no less tense than it had seemed moments before.

The quiet seemed to stretch an eternity.

“By all means, Q, let’s go see Raman now,” Silva beckoned, face benevolent, “Unless the poison I dabbed onto the ropes I tied him up with have killed him already, he should be more or less fine - I’m not a total monster.” The predatory look in his eyes said differently. “Anyone who might have tried to untie him, however, hmm…” A chuckle burst forth, as if Silva had just realized all of this, “James wouldn’t do that, now would he? If he weren’t anywhere near here, he wouldn’t have heard him give hints that your prize was nearby, so surely he’s fine, right, Q? Or is he dying right now?” Silva’s voice dropped a few vicious pitches, and his smile fell away to a mercilessly callous look that showed the cold beast beneath the flashy smiles.

Quint gave him a cold look before straightening, looking around the forest once more, as if knowing about the poison would suddenly reveal Raman to him as well. “Let’s get Raman out before your sociopathic tendencies kill him,” he only said, voice low and dangerous.

“My pleasure,” Silva gave in, turning around immediately. Since the agent hadn’t shown himself before when he’d been basically petting Q, he seemed fearless now, but apparently more interested in checking his trap than taking advantage of the hacker. Silva strode off unconcernedly, trusting that Q would follow.

As promised, the walk wasn’t long - near enough that anyone there could have still heard the conversation between Q and Silva, at least if things had got heated and dangerous. Near enough that Bond would have felt secure in his ability to get back to Q if necessary. The trees crowded in close until there was barely room to walk at all, forcing Q to fall back further behind Silva until they moved out into a small clearing. As they walked, Q mentally went over every possible scenario, both with and without Bond present and/or incapacitated. Lightning fast, he tried to calculate every possible situation and the perfect response for each of them. When he did step into the clearing though, all that fell away. The first thing he noticed was Raman, shirtless and very still, a gag keeping him quiet even if he hadn’t been unconscious. Or dead.

The second thing was a larger body - Bond! - collapsed not far away, equally motionless. Silva’s laughter ricocheted off the trees, a rumble of triumph splintered by something much like madness. He strode to Bond before Q could, making sure the smaller man couldn’t get to him. “Well, James. Stepped into this one, didn’t you?” he mused.

Quint’s eyes went large, and his first instinct was to run for James the moment he caught sight of the man. He started forward, but Silva moved a little more firmly in front of James, grinning. With that way closed off, Quint changed direction and went for Raman instead. Without a second thought, he ripped off his shirt and used it to get to the restrains. This close, it was clear that Raman was at least breathing, breath rasping slightly against the gag and skin clammy. A cut in the skin between his neck and shoulder was clearly responsible for the blood on his shirt. Silva himself was paying no mind, instead dropping down onto a knee near Bond, who didn’t respond. A shove flipped the 00-agent further onto his side, but instead of checking his pulse, Silva buried fingers almost gently in his short-blonde hair, considering. “He’s beautiful, Q - quite a catch. However did you manage it?” Silva conversed companionably as he used his grip to arch the agent’s head back, Bond’s neck limp and his usual tense readiness utterly absent. It was so _wrong_ to see him so still. Silva’s free hand lightly stroked at the straining tendons of the 00-agent’s throat.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. I am so very sorry. Please don't kill us? Does it help if I tell you we can't post the next chapter unless you leave us alive? Please?


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it's getting really, really hard to keep coming up with witty titles when there is very little witty or happy about the chapter.

Quint tried not to watch. He tried to focus on Raman, on getting the poisonous restrains as far away from the boy and himself as possible. They were halfway undone already, Bond’s work, no doubt. Silva must have tied up Raman and then smeared the poison on afterwards, so that the teenager hadn’t had much contact with it besides what he’d gotten on himself while trying to wriggle free afterwards. As Q got the ropes off, the boy instantly sank to the ground, limp and unresponsive. Quint was about to toss both shirt and ropes as far away from him as possible when a sudden thought stopped him. Instead, he crouched down, his back turned to Silva, and slowly unwound his shirt from the rope. Instead, he wound it around his hands, and picked up the rope. Mentally, he calculated speed, distance and reaction-time, taking Bond as his best estimate.

He took one more look at Raman, twisted around and shot towards Silva. The man reacted the moment Quint moved, his attention clearly still focused on the hacker, the hand that had been holding Bond’s head shooting up to stop whatever Quint had planned. Q twisted again and just before he came in touching range pushed the rope in Silva’s direction, the section that had bound Raman as close to Silva as Q could make it.

Maybe it would be a comical memory, later, the way Silva’s eyes widened in realization. Maybe he would have even been fast enough to dodge it, but - just as Bond had predicted - that one injury slowed Silva down. He was just a second too slow, and the rope brushed his outstretched palm before he jerked back.

Rage and frustration making his face ugly, Silva glared at Q. With a speed that made it seem as if he’d never been poisoned at all, his other hand moved - aiming for Bond’s shoulder-holster. Quint was as shocked as Silva was when he met nothing but hard leather, finding the holster unexpectedly empty.

Quint had scrambled back the moment he pushed his weapon - his only weapon - at Silva, but the moment it registered that he was not going to die by bullet, his brain was back on track. He looked around, all the while moving back so that he was between Silva and Raman, looking for that small black shape…

There!

Bond had left it tucked near Raman’s body, hidden against the tree and now half-under Raman’s shoulder. Quint moved back the last couple of inches and his hand shot out, blindly feeling for the gun as he kept his body turned towards the danger..

Silva threw himself at him a second before he got to it, Silva’s heavy form slamming him into the sandy ground. He definitely wasn’t incapacitated yet, but his movements were clumsy - mostly driven by pure weight of muscle, of which the man had quite a lot. The Spanish he snarled at Q was like tar bubbling up, hot and enraged. His right hand was almost ineffective, but both arms jerked forward with a horrifying amount of speed, dragging Q precious inches further from the gun before moving and locking around his throat. The pressure was instant, locking air out of his lungs even if Silva’s weight on his stomach weren’t already trying to crush him.

It was almost as much a reflex as it was anything else, with the added benefit of taking him back to the beach. The beach when everything was quiet and Bond was teaching him and flirting with him and trying not to set him off. As in a dream, Quint squeezed his eyes closed, clasped his hands together and drove them up and out. Just as with Bond - almost eerily similar - Silva’ right arm buckled first. The man barked in shock. The moment he lost his hold, Quint moved, not even thinking about it, just doing as he’d been doing with Bond, and twisted.

He almost crowed in victory when it worked, Silva’s entire body tensing above him for a second before snarling and giving way to one side. Instead, the moment he was loose, he made a grab for the gun and got up on one knee, pointing the gun right between Silva’s eyes. “The antidote,” he said, voice dangerously emotionless, “Where is it?”

The man seemed stunned that this had all happened. He blinked slowly a few times, falling prey to the poison as well, albeit more slowly. His greater body mass must have compromised the poison’s effectiveness or speed..Silva managed a slow and vicious grin. “There isn’t one. Say your last goodbyes to your pet assassin, Q. You’re going to wish you’d taken me up on my offer.”

Quint gave him a long, steady glare. Then he got up, looking down at Silva with disgust. Suddenly, he twisted the gun away from Silva’s head and pulled the trigger, not hitting the kneecap he’d been going for, but leaving a flesh wound in his thigh instead.

“I repeat. Where. Is. The. Fucking. Antidote? Not even a bloody nutjob like you works with poison without an antidote, now where is it?” Through it all, his voice had been perfectly calm, and he took his time steadying the gun as he brought it back to aim between Silva’s eyes. As he did so though, one unbidden tear made its way through the dirt on Quint’s cheek.

“Sentiment,” Silva noted, but he watched the tear like a demented shark watching blood, eyes glazing even as they traced its patch. He’d screamed when the bullet tore into his leg, but was growing calm now - or numb. He bared his teeth viciously even though his face was going slack, “That’s why you needed me. You could take the world down with a laptop, but you don’t have the teeth.” He glanced down at his leg instead of answering Q’s question, noting with perhaps surprise, “Well, maybe a few teeth.” And then his eyes rolled back in his head.

Quint screamed. A distant part of his brain, the part that sat back observed, noted that he’d never imagined people outside of stories did that sort of thing. It seemed there was nothing he could do about it though, not about anything. Not about screaming and not about Bond dying and not about Raman dying, and Hasan was going to _hate_ him and he had every right to. And here he was, in the middle of the bloody jungle, and he was a bloody murderer, and what for? It hadn’t made any bloody difference! If it wasn’t for him- If it wasn’t for him a lot of people wouldn’t be dead now, and that was really all there was to it.

He didn’t know when he’d sank to his knees, or when he’d started crying, but he noted distantly that that was just as well, too. He stared at the gun in his hand. Bond’s gun. _James’_ gun. He was about to toss it aside, but then didn’t. Couldn’t. Instead, he slid it in the back of his jeans like he’d seen moviestars do a gazillion times and with shaking hands started wildly tearing at Silva’s clothes. The antidote. It needed to be _somewhere_. He could still save them.

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

There could _not_ be nothing!

He forced himself to start over. Be methodical. Search every inch.

“Asshole!” the yell was raw and broken and it took Q a moment to realise that it was him yelling. “Fucking asshole! Where _is_ it? It has to be here! Has to be! You can’t have a poison like that and not the antidote! You fucking can’t!”

When the search didn’t reveal anything, Q jumped to his feet. Wildly, he looked around. Silva had to have a stash of supplies. It had to be here. He wondered why his vision was blurry when he was still - miraculously, that distant part of his brain noted - wearing his glasses. His hand flew up and came away wet. Tears. Crying. Right. “Fuck it! Fuck you!”

Suddenly, something hooked around Q’s ankle without warning, making Q jump a mile high and kick out. Only then did he register the heavily slurred voice. “I’d answer yes to that, but I don’t think I’m up for it. Rain check?”

Quint wheeled around and stared at Bond as if he’d seen a ghost. “You- But you were- And he didn’t- But-”

Bond’s eyes opened to thin, hazy-blue slits, but he looked heavily dazed, and quickly grimaced. “Full sentences, Q,” he grumbled moodily, working his tongue around the words as if they were unfamiliar.

“You were DEAD!” Quint burst out, pointing a finger at James almost accusatory. “How are you not dead?”

In that moment, Bond’s brain seemed to catch up with him, and the dazed expression lasted exactly one heartbeat longer before Bond exploded into motion. Or, at least, tried to. He surged upwards only to find that his body wasn’t listening to him, and with a sound of frustration that was just about the most terrifying sound invented, slewed sideways and into Quint. He was immediately trying again, although he was sensible enough to realize that he didn’t have his gun, and didn’t bother to reach for it.

"Bond!" Quint quickly grabbed a hold of him, pulling him close and, when he found himself buckling under the weight, sinking down with him. It was as if his mind had blown a fuse. "Bond..." he repeated, senselessly.

For a few seconds longer, Bond struggled, every muscle strung tight until it quivered. Ironically, what jerked him out of it first wasn’t the sight of Silva laid out on the sand with a bloody leg - it was his own hand jerking behind Q and accidentally coming into contact with his own gun tucked in there. The agent jerked in surprise, head whipping around fast enough that he should have pulled something, and then he just flattened his hand to the small of Q’s bare back, staring stupidly at the weapon Q was now carrying. Blue eyes flicked belatedly to Silva - motionless, unthreatening - while his calloused hand warmed Q’s skin. “I seem to have missed the party,” he said with rough embarrassment, still riding the last waves of adrenalin and tension.

Quint sagged a little at James' voice, as if he'd been afraid that his earlier words had been something of a fluke, or maybe a trick. Then he started chuckling, the sound shocking Q as much as James. It got louder until he was laughing, all out and almost hysterical in quality. "Bond!" he repeated again, grinning and shaking his head and clinging to the other man.

For a second, Bond just let him, one scarred hand running up Q’s back and dislodging bits of dirt and sand. Upon reaching the smaller man’s nape, Bond squeezed. “Q,” he whispered over the manic laughter, “Q, I need you to keep it together for a few minutes longer.” He growled, mostly to himself as he carded fingertips through the softer tips of Q’s hair, “At least until the last of the bloody drug wears out and I can stand. I can see Silva breathing.”

Quint stilled, little chuckles and what sounded suspiciously like giggles bursting forth before he managed to completely regain self-control. "I- you're right," he said, breathlessly. "I'm acting like a bloody madman and we're still in the jungle, still in danger and Raman- Raman!" He shot up, wildly looking over at the boy.

“Q!” Bond barked, infusing his tone with command even though he couldn’t physically do more than sit right now, “Silva first - if he’s not dead, he’s a threat.” Sympathy marred the iciness of Bond’s eyes, and he worked to soften his tone, “I know you want to check on Raman, but if whatever you did to Silva isn’t permanent, we might have trouble. Now focus and tell me: what did you do?”

Quint stared at Bond for a moment, using the man's calm to steady himself. His breathing visibly slowed and he squeezed Bond for just a moment longer before letting go and straightening his glasses. "I threw the ropes, there was poison on them, that's what took you out. Then I- Well. I shot him.” He looked down. “I tried going for his kneecap, but missed. Upper right tight. On the outside. It's a flesh wound."

“He’ll be up and moving before long then,” Bond growled, and tried to stand again - and failed again. He swore with surprising veracity. “Tie him up with the same rope you threw at him. If it poisons him some more, bully for us,” he commanded uncharitably, giving Q a light shove to get him going. “Then Raman. He was physically fine when I found him - just out cold and clammy,” Bond supplied helpfully, then dragged a hand down over his face, “After that, things get a bit fuzzy… Did you take my gun from me?”

Quint gave him an alarmed look, but it was quickly followed by one of determination. “Right.” He cast around for his shirt. “It was on the ground by Raman,” he said, absently, as he got up and moved over to get first his shirt, then the rope.

“Huh,” Bond considered that, face shifting as if he were rather proud of himself for thinking of that plan, even if he didn’t remember even any of it. “Not bad.” Never one to accept his own weaknesses, Bond pushed backwards until he found a tree to lean his weight on - without having Q for support, he obviously had to find something else and keep trying. By some minor miracle, he made it upright this time, although he had to close his eyes against obvious pain and disorientation. “Bloody buggering hell, what did he hit me with?”

“Some sort of poison,” Quint was looking speculatively between the rope and Silva, wondering what to do. If he bound Silva, the man would almost certainly die. Part of Quint wanted that. _Really_ wanted that. Part of him though… If he did this, he would be a murderer. Well and truly. Killing someone in self defense, or even to try and get answers that would save those he cared for… That was one thing. Killing like this though, winding a man in a rope that he knew would kill him… That was quite another.

“Q?” the soft question sought him out, “Q, what…?” Then, once again, Bond’s mind managed to fill in a few holes that the poison had knocked out of it. “Shit. Q, just… Good god, why am I even opening my mouth.” He scrubbed both hands over his face this time, stopping to take a deep breath as if that would clear his head a bit more. “Forget I said anything about the rope. That was my licence to kill speaking. Fuck. I hate being poisoned.” Because obviously this was a regular thing for him.

“And then you’ll kill him later?” Q’s voice held a dark, ironic sort of humour. “There honestly isn’t a difference Bond. I might as well do the deed if that’s the case. I’ll be just as guilty if you pull the trigger.” He sighed, shaking his head. “How do you do this?” he finally asked, “How do you live in these shades of grey and still make out which is which?”

“Mostly by reminding myself that my doing my job means that people like you won’t have to,” Bond shrugged, subtly countering Q. He looked to be regaining his equilibrium, if the way he was straightening without as much support was any indication. “Plus, quite a few years of training.” Bond winced, then looked away to force himself to add, “Most of what Silva said is true, at least in regards to the low moral standard of 00-agents.”

Quint flinched, still staring at the rope in his hands. “Was it painful?”

“What?” Bond’s head jerked his way, brows lowering.

“The poison. Was it painful?”

The muscles in James’s shoulders bunched, and for a moment his face was grave and largely unreadable. “Can’t remember,” he hedged a moment later.

“It was, then. What’s the- What’s the least painful way to kill someone?”

Bond stumbled away from the tree without further prompting, probably keeping his feet only thanks to the fact that he was idiotically determined and pathetically used to being busted up. Blue eyes were fixed like lasers on Q’s profile even before one hand came down and gripped Q’s shoulder (possibly for support, possibly to hold Q still). “I can tell you the slowest and most painful way to kill someone,” he fumed, jerking his head down to Q’s hands but wary of touching the rope without getting poisoned again, “You’re about to do it right now - to _yourself_. Now back up before I make you.” The violence was a low and sincere rumble in his voice, but his body language and expression read anxiety and distress instead.

Quint looked up at him then, defiance in his face. “If you do it, I might as well have, because it will be because I will have let you. My not pulling the trigger will not make me any less bloody guilty. He is going to die, by my hands, by your hands, by Hasan’s hands, by bloody MI6’s hands. We can’t let him run free because others will get hurt and die because of that, but even if we do take him prisoner and take him back to England… MI6 might interrogate him first, but after that they will kill him as surely as when either of us does it now. He will die and it will be because I allowed for that to happen Bond. All I can give him, all I can give _myself_ is the knowledge that he died quickly and painlessly and that neither of us sank to his level. Now, what’s the least painful way to kill someone?” His voice was quiet and steady, the voice of reason that Bond had heard a number of times and that made people pay attention and _listen_.

Blue eyes tightened, but Bond’s pause was only to regain the last of his balance. Once he had it, he placed his hands on Q’s shoulders and pushed back, firmly but unstoppable, his larger frame between Q and Silva. “You’re right, Q,” he allowed before any argument could be mounted, “I’m not going to argue that he needs to die - or that he will. But I’m not going to teach you to kill someone.” He kept one hand on Q’s shoulder, but removed the other - the bandaged left one, so familiar by now that it would probably look odd when it eventually healed - and held it out between them, palm up. “Give me my gun.”

Quint pulled out the gun with his right hand, but in the same movement, moved past Bond’s left side and took aim. It took him less than a second to calculate air-velocity, the way the gun had drawn to the side in his hands the last time he’d fired it, the perfect angle to hit Silva right between the eyes. He used both hands to steady the gun and-

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm a very curious person and I want to know: What are your thoughts on this? What do you think Quint should do? Do you agree with his reasoning? Are you on Bond's side with this?


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which what needed to be done is done.

_Chapter 28_

“B- Boss?” came a quivery, unsteady voice from off to their left.

Bond jumped slightly - reflexes still a bit slow from the poison decomposing swiftly in his system, although his hand was wrapping around Q’s right bicep, on the verge of clenching down. His eyes whipped over to where the last member of their little group was coming around, though, still looking sickly and generally in poor condition. Shirtless and bloodied, Raman looked ages younger even than his years.

Raman’s eyes were fixed and huge on the gun in Q’s hands.

Quint lost his concentration the second he heard Raman’s voice and turned around, the gun in his hands lowering even though he didn’t let go. With the careful sort of movement only found in lovers and pickpockets, Bond’s hand slid from his upper arm down to his wrist, pinning it so the gun wouldn’t be lifted again, even if Q wasn’t paying him any mind.

“Raman!” Q’s eyes went wide and after a second. He let the gun drop entirely into Bond’s waiting hand and ran over the boy on the ground, sinking to his knees beside him and helping him sit up with an arm under his shoulders and, when the boy’s head fell to the side, a hand under his head. “How do you feel?”

Shaking like a leaf - a far stretch from his usual boisterous self - Raman’s eyes shot between Silva’s unmoving form, the gun already being returned to its holster on Bond’s side, and finally Quint. There was something a bit like horror there, and the teen had to try twice before murmuring almost too softly to hear, “Did… You shot him, didn't you? You k-k-k…” He swallowed and stopped, then tried to pull away.

Quint froze, but never let go of the boy in his arms.

“No,” Bond cut in almost before the unspoken accusation of murder fully sank in. He seemed uneasy about taking his eyes off Silva, but after a glance at the pair on the ground nearby, he made a decision and walked over to them. “God knows _everyone_ wants to kill Silva, but that’s not-” Blue eyes cut towards Q, still darkened by anger and...hurt?...before turning back to Raman and finishing stoically, “That’s _not_ why Q’s here. He came to find you and make sure you were okay.” Pointedly not saying why he himself was there, Bond then returned to Silva, where he used his own belt to restrain the man after dumping him over on his stomach. The agent’s movements were abrupt and sharp, and would doubtlessly leave bruises later - a testament to Bond’s discontent.

Quint sighed and slowly pulled Raman up a little more, slotting himself in behind the boy so he wouldn’t be lying on the hard ground. “We _both_ came to save you, Raman.You’ve got everyone in a right panic, you know? Disappearing like that… Hasan was nearly frantic. Silva-” he stopped, reconsidered. “Silva’s not dead, but he’s not going to hurt you again either.”

“No, he indeed is not,” Bond stated with one final yank on the improvised restraints. He swayed slightly as he stood, but kept the cursing to himself because of Raman - Bond’s frustration would have to wait. “Stand your little friend up, Q - the sooner he gets back to Sam, the better. She’s going to have a conniption over all of this.”

Quint gave him a skeptical look. “I’m afraid the conniption is going to be mostly yours, mister Bond… Just wait until she finds out what you went and did with her beautiful handiwork… Raman, do you feel up to trying to sit?”

Seemingly relieved that his ‘boss’ wasn’t a murderer but still very, very wary of the dangerous man sprawled on the ground, Raman nodded and scrambled up with a great deal of help. His young eyes remained fixed on Silva’s sprawled form until Bond subtly interposed himself, blocking Raman’s line of sight. “Q,” Bond murmured, voice low in a confidential way once Raman was at least half-leaned against a tree. Lips near Quint’s ear, the larger man continued calmly, “Small problem.”

Quint’s eyes went from Bond to Silva to Raman and back to Bond. “I’m listening,” he said simply, calmly.

“The ground-cover and trees around here are too thick for me to just drag bloody Silva back the way we came, even if I were at the top of my game,” Bond confessed, “Someone has to stay here with him - and before you volunteer, no. Raman is your minion, and Sam is going to kill me on sight anyway.” He touched his ribs as if they hurt, grimacing.

Quint froze, eyes making another track between the three of them before he slowly closed his eyes. “I’m going to come back to find him dead, am I not? He’ll have woken up and attacked you, and it will have been self-defence.” The words were spoken in low, somber tones, but there was still the calm there that seemed to have taken Quint over since his realisation earlier. He sighed, the sound unhappy. “You’re right though, Raman shouldn’t see that. He’s too young and and has seen too much already for just one night. We’ll go. After you’re… Done, find my laptop? We still need it to get off this bloody island and it should be around here. Any other supplies he has, too. I’ll come back as soon as Raman is safe.” After he said the words he sagged a little, as if a burden had been lifted. He allowed himself to lean against Bond for just a moment, feel the man’s solidity, his warmth. “Be careful?”

Instead of pushing him away or just standing awkwardly, Bond wrapped one arm around Q’s middle. By this point, Raman was regaining his composure somewhat on his own, giving the two the illusion of privacy as Bond’s forearm pressed against Q’s stomach, thumbing the lean lines of his flank. It seemed like an unconscious gesture, but Bond wasn’t staring off into the distance - instead, his head slipped over Q’s shoulder, so he could continue talking in his ear without raised voices. “I was going to say, that if you asked me...I’d leave him alive,” James admitted, the tightness of his voice and the brief flex of his torso behind Q giving away his discomfort at the suggestion. Regardless of his own unease, however, the agent left the decision with Q.

Quint gave a sad smile, but shook his head. “No, do it. Be quick about it, merciful. It’s for the best.” He straightened his bony shoulders and stood upright. “Be careful Bond, and wait here until I get back.” he said in his normal tone of voice. “No wandering off and getting lost in the jungle with my laptop, would you? I’m quite attached to it after all… Raman, are you up for a walk?”

The dark-haired boy jerked his head to Q, sparing a brief, distracted glance at Bond, before a relieved half-smile managed to break across his face. “I’m up for anything if it gets me back to everyone else...and gets me a new shirt!” he cheered up enough to joke.

~^~

It would be a long walk back for Q and Raman, Bond knew. They’d probably manage it without getting lost, since the light would hold out at least until they got back to the creek - they’d have to follow their own back-trail until then. Bond was tempted to follow for a bit and make sure they stayed on course, but resisted the urge, forcing himself to sit down and stay still. Q could handle himself. He’d more than proven that he could.

The scene played itself over again in Bond’s mind, as vivid as a movie but with the visceral jerk of him having been there to begin with: he replayed the cold look of Q’s eyes, the paleness of his hands against the gun. Reflexively, Bond tensed, hands going into fists until both his hand and arm ached and threatened to tip from pain into agony. It took all of that just to jerk himself back to the present, eyes opening.

“Dark thoughts, James?” came a pleasant voice. Bond’s slid blue eyes over to Silva, not surprised to find him awake and already talking with his usual, lilting air.

Bond sat a moment longer, trusting his handiwork to keep Silva restrained, and also knowing that he was the right distance away to act even if Silva did do something - but far enough away not to be overwhelmed. He always thought like this: in terms of attack and response, threat and counter, necessary death and necessary violence. What disturbed him was that he’d just seen Q’s mind slip into that role, and he hoped he’d live long enough to utterly wipe that sight from memory.

The shiver that skated down his spine was a brutal caress, reminding him that all 00-agents died young.

“He told me to kill you as mercifully as possible,” said Bond, as if in conversation. Silva twitched, but Bond didn’t turn his head from where he was watching the slowly sinking sun turn the leaves to a mass of green-fire and verdant shadow. Bond thought a bit more, and then chuckled - a humorless sound. If corpses laughed, it would sound just like that. The epitome of gallow’s humor, which seemed to be all he had right now. He kept seeing Q raising the gun, asking how best to kill a person. “He was going to kill you himself, but the kid woke up and distracted him.”

Silva just lay where he was, either because he’d lost a godly amount of blood from his leg-wound or because he could tell he wasn’t going to escape the belt lashed around his wrists. “Funny how those things go, isn’t it?” he mused back, as eerily calm as the evening was. As Bond was. As everything was as it hovered between life and death. Even beaten and incapacitated though, Silva was still a monster. “What I find funnier still is how you seem so fond of him. You were there, weren’t you, when Q and I had our little chat in the trees?” Silva went on when Bond didn’t answer, didn’t move. “Ahhh, yes, you were. I can see it - even the face of the great 007 gives things away, hmm? So you heard me tell him about how a killer like you is as likely to kill him in his sleep as fuck him.”

Bond snarled, short and sharp, an involuntary reaction like that of fire spitting at water. He jerked as if to move, but...didn’t. He held his position, sitting his his arms over his knees. The clearing got darker, and Bond let it.

“He never defended you, you know,” Silva continued to muse, the snake in Bond’s bed, metaphorically speaking. “The average person would call you a brutal man, but I imagine there must be a heart under all of that - so tell me…” One cheek against the sand, eyes dancing, Silva’s smile slipped into something more animal - more vicious. “Did it hurt? Did it hurt to hear all of that and just take it in silence?”

“I’m doing that right now, Silva, and I can tell you that it doesn’t make me hurt anymore than I do already.”

And with that, he pulled his gun out - right-handed, unthinkingly - and put an end to Raoul Silva with a perfectly placed bullet to the temple. The shot ricocheted, but it had grown dark and the world was going to sleep, and Q and Raman would be back at the beach by now, out of hearing range. As he panted and curled his body over his now-definitely-broken right arm, Bond mulled over the fact that Q might very possibly not make it back tonight, in the dark. His memory flickered, realizing that there were flashlights in the salvaged supplies, but the thought darted away, pain chasing it. Laboriously, Bond re-holstered his gun, trying to find some regret that he wouldn’t be shooting right-handed again for awhile.

Instead, he just felt hollow. The pain was real, but that was it. Listening to the night growing quiet around him once more, he considered how he’d been hollow for so very long - all agents were, after enough kills, each taken life gouging out a piece of them - how he’d learned to live with it.

Somehow, though, seeing some of that hollowness threatening Q had undone something in him, and he didn’t know how to put it back together.

~^~

It was late when Q entered the clearing. The moon and a flashlight - one extra in a backpack, as well as food and water, a small emergency kit, a knife, a rope, a blanket and a myriad of other supplies, courtesy of Sam, bless her. He hadn’t quite dared to tell her just how heavy the pack was, and just how tired he was, but when he entered the small clearing… He didn’t think he’d been this grateful to her yet, and he’d had a huge number of reasons to be very grateful to her indeed, these last couple of days.

He let the light slide over the clearing, spotting first Silva, a bullet hole nearly hidden in one side of his head but clearly desecrating the other side. Then it landed on Bond. For a moment, Q’s heart stopped. Then he saw the man move with a too-measured breath, and his heart stuttered and started beating double time.

He ran towards him, dropping the flashlight in the process. It rolled over the grass and the beam finally held still on Silva’s feet. Q didn’t even notice though, he’d thrown himself in the grass besides Bond, then slowly, carefully, put a hand on his shoulder.

Bond was sitting, but curled in on himself so Quint couldn’t see his face. Arms folded out of sight against his middle, the agent was almost too still for sleep, knees drawn up to pillow his head in an pose that was distinctly wrong for a man who usually seemed in a constant state of alertness. The light touch to his shoulder hadn’t even gotten the muscles to bunch, and 007 just kept breathing mechanically: in...out...in...out...no variation. It was like the throbbing light of a computer put on ‘sleep mode’. Q didn’t quite dare to touch more than Bond’s shoulder, weary of the reflexes that he was pretty sure Bond would not be able to control in his current state. Bond’s body was cold and wet with dew and the moisture that seemed to drench everything in the jungle sooner or later, as if he hadn’t moved in quite some time. The sounds of the forest around them seemed all encompassing, so loud that it almost drowned out the sounds of Bond’s breathing. Raman’s breathing had grown unsteady and harsh not long after getting him back to Sam - some odd form of allergic reaction to whatever the poison had broken down into - and the kid had been clammy before then. Bond didn’t seem to be presenting the same symptoms, but it was still possible that he was suffering some sort of backlash, too.

Or this was something else entirely.

For a long moment, Q just sat there, irrationally afraid to break the deafeningly loud silence. Then he pulled himself together. Now was not time for emotional shenanigans or breaking down. Bond needed him, possibly more that he had at any point before, even when he’d been unconscious and wounded on a crashed airplane.

“Bond?” he said, softly, hesitantly, waiting for a response.

“Bond!” he repeated, louder now, and then, “James!”

“I can hear you,” came the remarkably steady voice. It was even a bit irritable, although the emotion sounded put-on - like the thin smile of someone who didn’t really have any amusement in them. “And you can stop pussy-footing around me.” Despite that, however, he didn’t move, not even to lift his head, although he shifted slightly. It was a slight rolling of his shoulders and flexing of the muscles down his back, but then he settled back into place, as if the actual action of lifting his head was just too much to contemplate. “Fuck,” he murmured quietly and tiredly as his movements seemed to jar something - considering how many injuries the man constantly had, it could have been anything.

Quint let out a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding and after a moment of hesitation moved to take off his backpack. He pulled out the blanket that he was suddenly incredibly glad for carrying and the bottle of water. In one movement, he wrapped the blanket around Bond, then moved closer again and wrapped himself around Bond and the blanket, pressing against Bond’s side. “Talk to me Bond, what’s going on? What do you need?” he asked, voice walking a tight line between concern and command.

The tone chased something like a shudder down James’s back, but instead of making him tense, it unstrung him a bit - like relief unhooking the knots of battle-tense muscles. The larger man’s breathing became less regulated and more... normal. In fact, a sigh whooshed out against the backs of Bond’s knees. “Painkillers would be nice. Bourbon would be better,” he eventually answered with an attempt at his usual cheek. It was clear from where Q sat at his right side that the fingers of his left hand were clenched hard around his right elbow. More so than one would expect from a man who’d be largely ignoring a fractured arm up until now.

Quint sighed and let his head rest lightly on Bond's shoulder for a moment. "You idiot..." he sighed, "Sam is going to kill both of us. Painkillers I've got though... I'm going to take a guess and say you don't have my laptop yet, do you?" He sat up and started rummaging through his bag, before holding out the bottle and painkillers. "Don't worry, I'll find it. Anything more?"

It was with a growl of effort - something between frustration, weariness, and perhaps muscles grinding unappreciatively beneath the skin - that Bond finally lifted his head. The darkness turned his eyes to cobalt unless he turned them, and the faint light of the flashlight turned them as colorless as chips of glass. After turning his head around a moment - ignoring Quint’s offerings - he nodded across the clearing and past Silva’s body with his chin. “Plastic bags, two layers. Buried under the leaf-litter. Your laptop’s inside. I figured Silva would want to get out of here quickly, and was banking on all of this-” A swift and generally irritable look around the area indicated the recent debacle as a whole. “-working.” Only after proving that he had, after all, completed his ‘mission’ did James’s head turn back and seem to note the bottled water and painkiller with something near surprise. He blinked at it for a second as if not knowing what it was, before slowly unlatching the fingers of his left hand from his elbow. Even that movement made him grimace, and it became clearer and clearer that he was doing everything possible so as not to move his right arm.

"Oh Sam is so going to kill us," Quint murmured, then moved a little closer. "Bond, please take hold of your arm again. I've got it." He pressed the pills to Bond's lips and waited for Bond to take them.

“You’re acting awfully nice when I haven’t even told you what I’ve done yet,” the agent smirked, the humor hitting the mark a little better this time. Unexpectedly, though, Bond gave in, tentatively wrapping his fingers around his arm again as if cradling the aching bones, and took the two pills from Q’s palm with a press of lips and the lightest suggestion of teeth. Because he was a 00-agent, and therefore a stubborn idiot, he still swallowed them dry with a sharp tip of his head.

Quint rolled his eyes, but opened the bottle and pressed it to Bond's lips regardless. "I've got a pretty good guess and for now that's good enough for me,” he said gently, waiting for Bond to wrap his lips around the bottle before carefully tipping it a little.

The water revived him a bit more, until the agent was willing to relax back, pinning the blanket between his back and stiff bark behind him. He thumped his head back against it, blinking as if trying to collect himself further and failing. “Q?”

"Hmmm?"

“I didn’t kill Silva for MI6.” He blinked again, expression twitching as if this troubled him, tongue touching his lower lip as if he hadn’t really tasted this thought before now, forming it in his mouth. “I didn’t even kill him because he was going to kill me. And those are the only reasons I have ever killed people.” A muscle in his jaw worked, tension coming and going in a tidal flow through his frame, indecisive.

Q put a gentle hand on his arm. "Why did you kill him?" he asked, softly.

 


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which trouble is back, and more trouble is brought in, and Q gets to come home.

Suddenly, unadulterated fury crossed James’s face - hot and explosive like a bonfire falling in on itself in a gush of sparks and heat. “I killed him because he was going to make you kill,” was all Bond grated out.

Quint’s eyes turned hard. "You killed him because the only other option was dragging him back to camp with us. Camp, where four very distressed, very scared teens would have to deal with him as well as the rest of us. Camp, where we would have to explain to everyone and take the chance that some idiot gets it in their head that he should be free. Camp, where we need to take care of him as long as it takes for MI6 to get us, only to have him killed because of what he did within weeks or even days. That's why you killed him."

“You’re attributing positive traits where they don’t exist,” Bond argued back with a sardonic little smirk, not bothered by the idea - it was old knowledge for him, or any agent with a licence to kill and the will to use it. The smile faded away as he explained in a soft voice, “You weren’t there. Silva woke up. I let him. We talked. And then I killed him for none of the honorable reasons you’re thinking.” His expression grew tight and closed off again. His right arm gave a shudder that said the painkillers weren’t dampening the agony just yet. The moment of silence seemed to drag on. Finally, Bond finished in a voice that said this was hard for him to admit: “I think that if I ever see you shoot someone when I could have pulled the trigger for you...I might just go berserk.”

The larger man folded forward again, eyes tired and short blonde hair tousled in a way that made him look momentarily younger in the darkness, before his face was hidden behind his knees again. He seemed to be reverting to the position in an attempt to find some semblance of balance and calm when all of his other reserves had run out.

“We’ve been on this bloody island for too long,” he groused with feeling.

Quint sighed. “If you killed him because my killing him was the alternative,” he finally said quietly, “Those are exactly the reasons you killed him. Those were the reasons I’d have killed him. As for pulling a trigger…” He shrugged awkwardly. “We do what needs to be done. If ever there is a situation where that needs to happen that’s what I’ll do.” He chuckled, but it was flat and fleeting in the darkness. “But yes, it’s definitely been too bloody long. Are you capable of walking back? I’d really rather find out what that brute did to my laptop somewhere that’s safe, dry and warm.”

After a moment of thought - which was really an improvement, from a man who usually just acted first and licked his wounds later - Bond nodded, although it was a slow nod, the kind that indicated some hesitation lingering in there somewhere. In fact, first, he glanced around and admitted grudgingly, “I should splint this first. If nothing else, I’d rather be as medically presentable as possible when we see Sam again.” He pushed himself up with a smooth rolling motion, as if using his arms were not so much too painful as simply bloody unnecessary, and eased his right arm out in Quint’s direction. One pale eyebrow rose expectantly. “One-handed, I’m not going to be much use retying this.”

Quint nodded. He looked like he was about to say something, but finally just shook his head and did as Bond had asked. He was no medical professional, but he could take a decent shot at the task after watching Sam do this for Bond a number of times. “She’ll kill both of us no matter what you do, so it’s a loss, I’m afraid,” he finally said, voice dry as if simply stating a fact. Then he grabbed his lantern, found his laptop and stuffed it in the pack along with anything else he’d taken out, all with quiet efficiency. He refused to take back the blanket, though. “Oh well, time to face the music…”

It was encouraging that Bond had the audacity to chuckle, perhaps finding the last morose sentence amusing. Nonetheless, he began walking, not sparing the body behind him a single glance. “Besides wandering around in the dark, whatever could she be mad at you about?” he said conversationally, but the beginnings of a teasing tone were back in his voice. He glanced at Quint, mischief in blue eyes, “Associating with unsavory characters like myself, perhaps?” Damn, the man was grinning now.

“That, too,” Quint said, following him and trying to find an angle where he could use his torch to light the path in front of Bond. “But mostly allowing you to be the bloody idiot you are. She already ripped me a new one for letting you stay here all alone, when you’d just been poisoned by an unknown substance. And would you bloody well wait and let me take the lead, seeing as I’ve got the flashlight and all that?” he finally snapped, glaring at the back of Bond’s head.

He got a chuckle as a response as first, but after a few more maddening steps from the head of their little two-man caravan, Bond stepped aside, watching with a half-smile as Q passed him. From that point on, the man made it a point to nearly step on Q’s heels the whole way back.

~^~

The moment Quint had delivered Bond to Sam, he tuned out their banter - and her death threats - and sank to the ground right next to them. He keyed open his case, pulled out his laptop and pressed the power button.

_Pleasedon’tneedpowerpleasedon’tneedpowerpleasedon’tneedpowerplease-_

Victory! The battery was more ran down than it had been on the plane, but Q had expected nothing less. Silva was bound to have given hacking it a try.

Regardless of how he expected it, though, the moment Q realised just how hard Silva had tried - and how close he’d come to breaking his encryption altogether - he felt nauseous. It felt like someone had taken a part of Quint and touched it all over with slimy, sticky fingers, leaving disgusting goo all over him.

Yes, he did realise how silly it was to view a computer as part of oneself, thank you very much, but that didn’t make him feel any less… any less… Violated. It really was the only term he could think of.

He took great relish in checking his code, detecting, deleting and renewing anywhere Silva and his slimy fingers had been. Then, when he was certain there were no more surprises waiting for him, he entered the final lines of access code.

It was almost a physical rush, having his laptop at his fingers again.

He gave himself a moment to savour it, jumping lightening quick through his programs and partitions, checking his distro, drivers and encryption for possible damage he’d missed. Then he chose a particular batch of programs and accessed them.

His last bit of awareness of the world around him fell away as he put his whole focus to the task ahead of him. It was time to play.

~*~

Q hadn’t even bothered to listen to Sam’s reaction when she’d first seen them, no less bothered to help Bond out with any explanations. He just sank into the sand, opened that computer of his and left Bond to deal with the world at large.

It was something to see, though, Bond thought, tuning out Sam as she went about taking care of his wounds and probably trying to lecture him about being a walking-talking accident. By all rights, the hacker should’ve looked awkward, sitting there in the sand, broken glasses and all. Or maybe cute. Definitely cute. If Bond saw this later, or under other circumstances, he’d find it cute, and even with Sam prodding at his arm the agent flashed a brief smirk of fondness.

There was nothing awkward and cute about this, though: the razor focus, the almost predatory expression as Q’s hands flew over the keyboard, jumping between the windows of an interface that looked nothing like the Windows or occasional Apple interfaces Bond had dealt with. Honestly, Bond wasn’t even sure how he’d gotten the computer up and running, or found internet, or whatever it was that made computers do fancy things like Q was making his do. Once in a while, a sharp bit of triumph would show through on Q’s expression, only to be followed by even faster typing, and 007 found that he wanted to do nothing so much as watch.

“Hey, loverboy, attention here, please - at least until you answer the questions I’ve asked you at least three times already,” Sam’s voice rode the line between irritation and amusement, and Bond’s head swung back to her with a little glare that had no effect on the doctor whatsoever. In fact, in retaliation, she pressed her fingertips just slightly harder than necessary against his arm, and Bond had to clench his jaw to hold back a very unmanly yelp. Then he really glared, but Sam just cocked an eyebrow at him as if to say he deserved it. “Quint doesn’t need your eyes on him to pin him in place,” she noted, that meaningful eyebrow still raised, “He’ll stay put.”

“You can say that all you want,” Bond griped back, wishing for more painkillers and an excuse to sit with Q and watch that scalpel intellect at work, even if Bond wouldn’t know a fraction of what Q was doing, “but you didn’t have the last twelve hours that I’ve had.” On closer inspection, what Bond really wanted was to just plain sit by the hacker - preferably close against his side, where he could feel his steady breathing and see the slight glint every time light hit his cracked glasses.

“Well, I have had an evening and the night after spent calming panicked teens who wanted to play superhero and track down their boss - and the brave fellow with their boss.” Sam gave 007 a significant look, holding it even as she watched surprise chase itself across his features. “Yes,” the doctor clarified, “they worried about you, too - although Q’s the more lovable one. Hands-down.” She grinned cheekily as she finished unwrapping the quick field-dressing Q had put on Bond’s arm, allowing her to look at it.

The tension in Bond’s shoulders eased, and he threw her back a smirk of his own before flashing another look Q’s way. The hacker was oblivious. If the teens found him, they’d be talking to a Q-shaped statue. That level of utter focus was… actually kind of a turn-on. Maybe Bond was just high on left-over endorphins, but he wondered if - under other circumstances, say, back in MI6 - he could find Q so focused again.

And then take all of that focus apart piece by decadent piece.

“No argument there,” he belatedly replied to Sam’s comment, once again dragging his eyes back from Q, submitting to a more thorough check over from the woman. His arm couldn’t be helped, but after seeing what the after-effects of the poison had done to Raman, Sam was determined to make sure that her newest (and worst) patient was alright.

“Here - sit. You can keep Raman company and watch your boy over there,” Sam commanded and also nodded to Q’s hunched, typing figure. “You two are honestly lucky that I’ve sent Q’s minions down to the beach to try their hand at a little late-night fishing, or they’d be all over you both right now - and Raman.”

For the first time, Bond noticed Raman: he was a blanket-covered lump in the dark, and it took a moment to see that he was breathing. “The poison out of his system?” Bond asked in a much more sober tone as he allowed himself to be led over, eventually sitting down right next to the teenager. It was still quite dark out, but hopefully it was more than the distant firelight and the blush of Q’s computer that showed a healthy colour to the kid’s face. He reached down with his left hand to place the well-scarred backs of his fingers against the kid’s forehead, finding him no warmer than could be expected.

“He was a wreck when he got here, but is fine now,” Sam shrugged, kneeling next to the agent and beginning to look at his broken arm in earnest, “Honestly, I’m surprised you’re not worse.”

“Oh, I was,” Bond assured her, darkness seeping into his expression and tone, but lightning as he glanced back at Q. Something about that tousled head, highlighted by bluish-white from his computer, siphoned off the worst in Bond.

Once again, Sam caught him looking. The tilt of her lips was knowing, and 007 suddenly felt a bit like a kid caught sneaking in and out of windows illicitly at night. “Any chance I’ll catch you two making out like rabbits anytime soon?” she asked cheekily.

Bond snorted and then started laughing so suddenly that Q twitched, but didn’t turn from his work. He eyed the doctor with his mouth still crooked upwards at once side, and commented, “You have a remarkably perverse nature for someone who usually acts so professional.”

“There’s nothing perverted about wanting to see two very good-looking fellows in nothing but their skins,” she sniffed, apparently very assured that Raman was asleep and no one was in hearing range.

“Nothing professional about it either,” Bond noted, tipping his head and still playing with a smile now that his outburst of laughter was under control.

Sam gave him a mock-offended look, but then shrugged her shoulders, inspecting his forearm as she added a bit less lecherously, “Well, then you can’t fault me for wanting to see two people happy who have come to mean a lot to me.” Bond didn’t know what to say to that, but was saved from having to find an appropriate response by Sam grumbling and then re-splinting his arm in a fashion he found rougher than necessary. “You also can’t fault me for being bloody mad that you worsened the break in your arm, What in the world did you do?!”

“Fell on it,” he lied on instinct, because the only other person alive to know the truth was presently so absorbed in his work that Bond thought he could throw a rock at him and not get noticed.

“Fell on it?” Sam parroted, her quieter tone more foreboding than the loud one.

“Yup,” Bond nodded, “I’m bloody clumsy in the dark.”

“Bond!” there were suddenly squeals from off to the left, saving 007 from the interrogation but nearly setting off his hair-trigger defense reflexes. He was still tenser than he’d thought, but Sam’s fingers had clenched down suddenly over the gun holstered against his ribs. With a jolt, he looked at her when their fingers touched, only then realizing that he’d gone unconsciously for his gun. Swiftly pulling back and forcing himself to relax, the blonde-haired man met a gaggle of young faces coming into reach of the firelight. They hadn’t noticed Q yet, because of the angle they’d arrived at, but Bond was still a bit flattered and surprised when they flocked around him instead of their preferred leader.

“What happened? Where’s Q? What happened to that bastard Silva?” The questions were immediately thrown at him.

Sam fielded a few instantly, “Q’s fine. And Hasan? Language. You’re too young to curse like that.”

“Grow to be my age, and you can curse as much as you fucking like,” Bond couldn’t help but interject with an impish troublemaker’s leer. He got a hard swat to his thigh from Sam for it, but the kids looked less worried and more happy by the minute. Hasan even stopped bouncing around and instead sat down - right by the other side of Raman’s sleeping form, the agent noticed.

Feigning exhaustion that was honestly quite real, Bond let Sam lead the conversation. More often than not, she talked for him, so that the story that came out to the kids was decidedly edited for content. Bond, of course, did not add that he’d then shot Silva in the head to remove any threat the man might have posed in the future. And when even Sam asked what had become of Silva, Bond just pretended that he’d drifted off entirely.

Hopefully, when the teens discovered Q only a few meters away (hidden by shadows until one followed Bond’s line of sight a bit more closely), they’d be tactful enough not to ask him instead.

"Bond, which of your coworkers is most likely to be available and authorised to take action right now?" When Q suddenly spoke, everyone in the vicinity jumped. When Bond's head whipped around though, the hacker still hadn't looked away from his screen, and his fingers were still flying over the keyboard at top speed.

“Um…” Bond faltered a moment, not only because the question was out of the blue, but because he’d just ruined his pretend sleeping act. He was going to have to do something about that… or not. So far, nothing bad had ever come from paying attention to Q, unless one counted some rather snarled and tangled emotions that he hadn’t expected. “I’m probably going to regret this, but Alec Trevelyan would be the fastest to reach. He’s…” Considering his audience, Bond hedged, “He’s in the same field as I am, and can deliver a message in a way that makes it hard to ignore. You wouldn’t even have to go past any firewalls to reach him, because the bloody idiot doesn’t think that hackers are dangerous.” Which was a lot funnier now that Bond had met Q, proving that someone Q’s calibre was probably just as dangerous as anyone in MI6.

Quint finally stopped typing and turned to him to raise an eyebrow. He turned the screen of his laptop slightly and on it, in one of the windows that were opened, Bond saw exactly the same screen one would get when logging on to any MI6 computer. “How do I get in touch with him?”

Bond craned his neck a bit, inspecting the screen and thinking, before giving instructions that basically amounted to sending a message via the computer to Alec’s phone. “I’d say to hack directly into the person in charge,” Bond shrugged, avoiding M’s title deftly while he was still being watched by Sam and the teens, “but that might gain you more trouble than help initially. Just message Alec’s phone somehow to say you’re a friend of Sterlings’.” The name got him funny glances from Q’s minions, and a more calculating one from Sam, who really shouldn’t have been surprised as a 00-agent throwing around names that weren’t his own. “Start the message with the word ‘trouble’ and you’ll get his attention faster.”

Quint rolled his eyes and muttered to himself for a bit, something like despair flitting over his face. Then he seemed to pull himself together and opened some sort of database that Bond was fairly sure even _he_ didn’t have access to, plucked out what looked suspiciously much like Alec’s phone number and went back to the black screens with white text he’d been working from previously. There was more lightening fast typing before Q’s hands suddenly fell still. Bond got up to more easily look over his shoulder, and the last typed message was still there, along with a bunch of computer-lingo that honestly made Bond dizzy.

_Trouble is back. I’m a friend of Sterling’s. Plane crash at 23°17'10.2"N 63°35'28.9"E. Get someone to come and get us?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the first time in thirty chapters, Q feels in his element. I think that he got to come home earlier than any of the others, honestly. It sure as hell feels that way to him. And why yes, he did just hijack a satellite and hack into an MI6 user-account with higher access levels than even Bond's from a deserted island. Also, Bond does indeed find this incredibly sexy.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Q finds out that James and Alec are a matched set, and starts seriously wondering how the world is still up and ruunning.

 

 

 

The reply was surprisingly swift: _Wtf Sterling?! A plane, seriously?!_ Bond chuckled as he read it, but touched Q’s shoulder to say in a more reassuring tone, “He’s getting help, don’t worry. The complaining is normal for him, but he’ll already be starting to raise hell in headquarters right about now, if he’s anywhere near there.” Then Bond grimaced, as a realization hit him, “Or, in a less perfect world, he might be calling in his own contacts to save us.”

Quint gave a nod. _Yes, a plane. We have about 40 living passengers that need to be taken care of._

 _Tell Sterling he owes me - it’s my day off_ , was the next message received, and then a more helpful, _Should be a plane to pick you up in eight. Any other requests, mysterious-friend-of-Sterlings?_

Quint looked up at Bond, a question in his face.

“Tell him we’ll need some medical attention on-site,” Bond added, glancing at Sam - who was still watching, although the teens had sat down and started to look a bit bored at being excluded - and receiving a nod in return. “Alec won’t need specifics - just tell him first-aid will be needed, and he’ll just about drag you a whole damn hospital.”

“I can tell he’s worked with you a lot,” Sam pointed out, glancing at Bond’s arm. He gave her a charming, innocent smile in return.

Quint’s lips quirked, but that was all the response he got from the other man. _Medical attention on-site, some of the wounded are incapable of walking. Please refrain from packing a whole hospital into a plane though. Half of one will do._

“Don’t forget to mention Bond’s arm,” Sam called helpfully but with a cheeky smile.

“No,” Bond shot her a look that said, ‘ _Why did I ever like you anyway_?’ as he grumbled pettily, “don’t mention Bond’s arm. Alec’s got enough to laugh at as it is.”

“He’s going to laugh at a _plane crash_?!” Tara squeaked from behind them, her eyes wide.

“Some people always find something to laugh about,” Sam said, rolling her eyes.

Alec’s returning _I’ll see what I can do - if I send only half a hospital, do I get your name?_ sounded ironic and maybe slightly suggestive, but Bond was already looking back and responding to Sam’s words, “He and I run in the same circles. Believe me, by this point, he’ll laugh at just about anything so long as its not trying to kill him right this second. But he means well.”

Quint looked at Bond askance, but when he noticed the lack of attention, he shrugged and looked back to his screen, trying to figure out an appropriate response. He felt like he should be doing something more, now that he had his laptop, like it couldn’t be that easy. It was odd, putting their rescue completely in the hands of this Alec, a man that he didn’t know or trust, a man that was MI6 of all things. True, Bond was… Not at all what Quint had expected him to be, but one employee honestly didn’t say all that much about the rest of the organisation. For all Quint knew, he was just an anomaly. For all Quint knew, as a matter of fact, they would put him in irons before he even set foot on British soil and he’d never see freedom again. It was a sobering thought. And could Bond really protect him from that? _Would_ he? And here he was, willingly and knowingly telling only MI6 about their survival and location. He could’ve contacted anyone, from any country, but he contacted the one agency that was not only on the other side of the world, but also sent out an assassin to kill him without thinking twice about it. He was a bloody fool.

There was nothing for it though. With Silva’s body in the jungle… MI6 was the only organisation that he trusted to deal with that discreetly. It made him sick, in a way, that he of all people was counting on a secret government organisation to help conceal what basically came down to a murder.

He looked back to the screen, white cursor blinking innocently on the black of the command window he was using to text this Alec. _Not very likely._ He typed. He considered a moment, then pressed send.

At that point, Bond starting pay attention again, although he was fortunate - or unfortunate - enough to miss Alec flirting with Q. Not that he knew so much as the gender of the person he was messaging... but Alec was equal-opportunity that way. “Mention that we’ll need a bit of clean-up,” the agent murmured in a voice designed not to carry, expression calm but eyes a bit flatter than before as they watched the screen.

Quint gave a nod. _Sterling says he needs clean-up?_ he typed, trying not to let on to the fact that he understood what Bond meant and why, nevermind that he was just as responsible for it as Bond was. Finally realising that he owed the rest of them a bit of an update, he turned to the rest of their group.

“They’re coming for us,” he said softly, looking up at the people sitting around him. He hadn’t even been completely aware of the teens arriving. Now he gave them a tired smile that he hoped was encouraging. “If everything works out, in about eight hours, we should be picked up. We’re going home…” The words made something in him clench. Home. Was he going home? Really? It still didn’t seem very likely.

The teen’s eyes grew wide at his words, and an open smile settled on Sam’s face.

“They’ve found us?” Tara asked, breaking out into a grin as well.

Hasan elbowed her. “Don’t be stupid! The boss told them where we are and made them come and get us, didn’t you, boss?”

Ishya just smiled at him, but her face was hopeful and happy in a way he hadn’t yet seen.

It all made Quint’s throat go tight and he quickly looked away, seeing if Alec had responded yet.

The mention of ‘clean-up’ combined with Q’s apparent ignorance of the phrase’s true meaning finally had Alec sounding more wary, as he messaged back with less playfulness, _Understood. Keep out of Sterling’s way if you can_.

“Bloody…” Bond grumbled, his eyes following the conversation this time as he leaned down over Q’s shoulder. “Come on, Alec, I’m not going to kill the boffin,” he muttered mostly to himself, sounding quite piqued at what his friend was messaging. Briefly, he glowered at the keyboard as if considering typing back a message himself, but ultimately labeled the computer as purely Q’s domain and liable to bite him if he touched it. Instead, he sighed, settled down on his haunches more comfortably, and translated, “Alec thinks I’m a bad influence on you. And he’s only known you for three minutes.”

Behind them, Tara overheard and smirked. “I don’t know…. This Alex sounds like a smart man, boss!”

Quint laughed. “I suppose you must be right, Tara… But guys… since we have a pretty big day tomorrow, why don’t you guys pop by the campfire and tell whoever’s still up about our imminent rescue and then catch some shut-eye? It’s late and it’s been a bloody tiring day.”

The girls jumped up, but Hasan threw Raman, still sleeping through all of the ruckus, a look that held the middle between hesitant and longing. Quint couldn’t help but smile at the boy, but it was Sam who spoke.

“We’ll take good care of him, Hasan. Go sleep. Tomorrow, if all this pans out, I won’t have time to take extra care of him, so I’ll need you alert enough to do it for me, alright?”

“But…” the boy said, pulling a face, “I could sleep here, right? I promise I’d sleep better here than off in the camp! And it’s not like you won’t need sleep anyway, so I can stay close and take care of him…”

Sam looked between Q, Bond, and the two boys and sighed, but before she could do anything about it, Quint jumped to his feet. “It’s alright, we all need sleep,” he said, not closing his laptop despite his words, “Sleep well, Hasan, you too, Sam. Tomorrow… Tomorrow we’re going back to civilisation!” And how pathetic was it that that thought managed the spark of excitement that the idea of home hadn’t? He paused a moment. “Coming, Bond?”

The smile he got was small but immediate, 007’s eyes very blue even in the dark. “Not going to just depend on my sleepwalking tendencies this time?” the man couldn’t help but tease, one eyebrow arching upwards while the curve of his mouth grew slightly suggestive.

Quint shrugged. “Figured you’re more than half sleepwalking at the moment anyway, so if we were to keep the theme going, we might as well do it right now…”

“Oh, gods!” Sam suddenly said, while Hasan’s eyes widened a little. The woman waved her hands at the two men, “Just go already! Say sweet-nothings or practice self-defense or whatever it is you two idiots do to express your feelings - just stop loitering and teasing each other!”

Even Bond seemed slightly shocked, and stared at the woman a moment. Quint though, just laughed a little and shook his head as he started walking away. Truth be told, he hadn’t even really been thinking about that. He just needed to be away from people for a bit, and for some odd reason Bond didn’t seem to count as ‘people’ anymore. Not only that, but he really was too tired to censor every word he said.

Instead of heading to the camp and his mattress, Q bowed off and made his way to the rock-formation by the shoreline, trusting Bond to follow him. Like a shadow, the man did, rising with barely a hushing sound of sand. He may as well have not existed at Q’s back, because Q’s footsteps were audible but Bond’s - despite his greater size - weren’t. However, eventually the man spoke, low voice fitting the starlit darkness, “I may be wrong, but sleeping on the rocks is decidedly less comfortable than on even an air-mattress.”

Quint threw a look over his shoulder that was decidedly unimpressed. “I just wanted some time… Away. From them, I suppose. You’re welcome to go sleep though. But if you want to talk more freely to your… Alec, now’s the time.”

Bond just snorted, increasing his pace in slight increments until he was at Q’s elbow, but also placed himself further from the laptop with the wariness of a cat for water. “Oh, believe me, Alec and I get enough time talking. We’re lucky we don’t shoot each other on a regular basis. When you meet him, you’ll understand.”

Quint sighed and nodded. He circled the rock until he was facing away from the camp and then gave his screen one last look, but when there were no new messages, he powered it down with a few last commands. He’d better preserve the battery and there was nothing he could do anyway. He closed the cover and allowed his head to fall back against the rock, falling silent.

There was a slight shuffling noise and then the sound of something being dropped in the sand not far from Q’s feet - which turned out to be Bond’s shoulder-holster - then the larger man was stretching out quite lazily next to Q’s side, ignoring his own comment about sleep being an uncomfortable thing in places like this. His gun was still close at hand, within easy reach on his left side, but the agent looked very different when he wasn’t wearing it. Then again, he probably looked different in general because he didn’t have an enemy dogging his steps and forcing him to be alert.

They sat like that for a long time, Q staring up at the stars, head tipped back, closed laptop still in his arms. Bond quietly lying next to him.

"Why do you think he did it?" Q finally asked, voice quiet as if not to disturb the peace they'd found. He never looked away from the sky.

The shoulder next to him twitched, as if Bond hadn’t expected the noise. “Who? Silva?” he came on topic slowly. Realizing Q could hardly have meant anyone else, Bond sighed tiredly and thought a moment. “In my experience, the why doesn’t matter too much - but that’s the answer of a 00-agent who kills on command. Clearly-” He shifted his left hand to run the backs of his knuckles against Q’s knee, a small reminder of his presence - as if his steady voice weren’t enough. “-’Why’ matters quite a lot, but Silva is dead.” Now he tapped a knuckle, bone lightly on bone, eyes looking up at Q’s with compassionate warning, “I’m not sure there’s any use in thinking about the ‘why’.”

Quint shook his head, but still didn't look down. "The co-pilot," he said then, something wistful entering his voice. "What makes someone crash an airplane, kill that many people, then kill himself?"

Now the first response was a growl, and slightly perturbed sound, and Bond dropped his hand to his stomach. “That...that I don’t know. Money. Fanaticism. Insanity. Loyalty. There are lots of things that I’ve faced, but I’m not expert.” He thought on his dire list a moment longer, then added, “Fear will do it, too.”

Quint nodded. "I might be able to figure it out, later. When-" he stalled, then corrected himself. "-if I get access to my computers." he sighed and fell silent once more.

Although quite tired himself, Bond was a 00-agent, and could read the unease filtering through Q’s careful words and silences. He let the quiet stretch a bit longer, to see if Q would keep up the line of thought, but then started talking again himself in a voice that feigned lightness passably well, “Nervous there, Q?”

Quint sighed, then fell quiet a moment in a way that Bond had come to associate with him gathering his thoughts. "Weary. Exhausted actually. But the thought of sleep seems laughable. And yes, I suppose I am nervous." He fell silent again, but just before Bond could speak, he continued, voice so soft it was barely audible over the waves. "What do you suppose happens, when we get back?"

“Well…” Bond gathered his thoughts in his own way, flexing his left hand against its bandages. Then an unexpected little smirk crossed his face, the kind that meant he had just enough energy to cause mischief, “There are three ways I could answer that.” Apparently, the man had energy for word-games now. “I could lie - something I’m quite good at - I could tell you the truth, or I could distract you instead.” Blue eyes looked up at Q, that promise of trouble still lurking at the edges of the man’s mouth. “I happen to hate the second option, but am honestly quite fond of the third, if my opinion counts for anything.” He still remained lying on his back unthreatening, however, as if more interested in what Q would choose than actually trying to get his way.

The expression that passed over Q’s face was troubled, and for a long time, an answer was not forthcoming. Finally the hacker sagged. “Never mind,” he said quietly, making as if to stand up. “I suppose we should try and get some sleep…”

“Hey,” Bond propped himself up suddenly, catching Q’s hand before he could leave. Waiting a moment, just watching, the larger man eventually tugged a bit at the other man’s arm until Q moved a bit closer to him. “This okay, Q?” he asked with far less teasing than earlier.

Quint gave Bond a quiet smile and shuffled a little closer still. He seemed to consider for a moment, then put the laptop case in the sand, put his glasses on top of it, and let himself slip down and into Bond’s arms. There was nothing sexual about his movements, but by the way he pressed himself against the other man, the contact was more than welcome nonetheless. Releasing a breath that was slow and contented, 007 nuzzled against the soft skin behind one of Q’s ears but otherwise didn’t push his luck. His left arm was a sturdy brace around Q’s narrower shoulders, a weight of dependable bone and tested muscle, while Bond’s broken arm he had the good sense not to move about. “I should probably apologize for the fact that the best answers I can offer you are probably the ones that are utter lies,” the man said, letting the words murmur themselves against Q’s ear like water tumbling over rocks. Bond’s shrug was communicated through both of them because of the closeness, even as the agent breathed in as if he could pull something ineffable and perfect from Q with just the breath. “Occupational hazard, unfortunately.”

Quint pressed his nose into Bond’s neck. “I’m sorry,” he said, the slight shake of his head brushing his hair against the other man’s chin.

The chuckle he got was more a vibration than a sound, and 007’s arm locked just a bit tighter around him. “No, Q,” he said in a false patronizing tone, “the answer to when someone else says ‘I’m sorry’ is either ‘You’re forgiven’ or ‘Bond, you’re an utter arse, apology not accepted’.”

That finally broke through the melancholy mood that seemed to have taken Q. “You’re forgiven. Also, you’re still an utter arse,” he said, the effect of his prim tones somewhat spoiled by the smile that Bond could feel spreading over Q’s lips.

“I can live with that,” was the philosophical acceptance, and Bond let the silence stretch. His hand had begun stroking almost absentmindedly up and down Q’s arm, chasing after the tension that had probably been in the lean tendons and muscles for days. The island itself was decently warm, but Bond was like a furnace, pressing heat into Q’s skin wherever he touched. “With any luck, things will happen quickly enough that it doesn’t matter, but if people start asking about Silva, just say he ran and we didn’t find him. Raman looks like he’ll stay asleep long enough for that lie to work for us and keep people from panicking,” the man offered, keeping his tone level, serious, and calm. Fabricating stories was something he did for a living. “We’ll have to tell Sam, but I imagine she’ll stick to whatever story will keep people calmest. Also.” Bond frowned. “Chances are, the people Alec sent will look a lot like terrorists...and might actually be ex-criminals. Or just plain criminals. Alec and I both have a habit of collecting favors from odd people.”

Quint laughed, and actually pulled back a little to look up at Bond. “Why am I not at all surprised?” he asked, shaking his head. Then his eyes widened. “Oh god, there’s two of you, isn’t there? How has the world not exploded?”

Bond started laughing so hard that he had to slip his arm from Q’s shoulders - instead wrapping it around his ribs which were, after all, still quite damaged, and now protesting. The laughter took some time to subside, and when it did, Bond turned only to catch Q’s jaw in a one-handed grip and lean over him in for a swift, unsubtle kiss. “I needed that,” the man murmured, making no distinction between the rolling laugh and the kiss. The slight scrape of stubble against Q’s chin matched the husky intonation perfectly, and the lines around Bond’s eyes showed as he continued smiling even as he rode out the ache of his ribs. “Well, that decides it,” he said with cheery impishness and a slide of his blue eyes over Q, “If I’m going to ever team up with Alec again and try to explode the world, I guess I should sleep sometime.” His eyes glinted in the dark, as playful as a fox’s. “And if you want to have a chance at foiling us, you should sleep, too, Q.”

Quint laughed and allowed himself to be pulled back into Bond’s arms. “In that case, I think I had better make sure I get at least a couple of hours…”

“I’d make some lecherous comment about misusing some of those hours, but I’m plumb out right now,” the agent hummed goodnaturedly, and proved this by relaxing again, warm sand giving way beneath his back with a soft sound.

Q smiled up at Bond before putting one arm under his head, the other around Bond’s waist, and closing his eyes. The smile, though, stayed. The two drifted off on the sand with no one else the wiser.

~^~


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Q and Bond finally make the rating of this fic come true, Bond needs to have a word or two with Alec on the subject of timing and the author advises readers to not repeat her mistakes and read this at work.
> 
> In other words, in which we finally get a chapter that's truly NSFW (and you can all guess where the final read-through happened...)

_Chapter 31_

Thanks to the fact that Bond didn’t have a working watch on him (and the fact that Alec had a habit of being fashionably late), James didn’t know how early he woke up, only that the promised rescue hadn’t quite arrived yet. The sun was up, though, just starting to lighten the area, and a certain hacker was still asleep next to him.

Deciding to enjoy the moment - because before long one of Q’s minions would doubtlessly start hunting for them, if Sam didn’t - the agent eased up slowly, just enough so that he could look at the tousled head of dark hair, the closed eyes that were no longer covered by those horribly cracked glasses. They lay within reach, and Bond smothered the troublemaking impulse to reach over and inspect them for pure curiosity’s sake. Instead he shifted his lazy focus back to Q - Quint, even if that name just wouldn’t roll of his tongue.

His arm was still killing him (especially now that any painkillers had more or less worn off), but broken bones were so common for him that it was pathetic. His unexpected partner right now, however, was far from common. Bond hadn’t admitted it out loud, but he couldn’t remember a mission ending up quite this interesting before, and that wasn’t even considering the fact that he’d ended up crashed on a deserted island.

How much more interesting would it get when they returned to MI6? After all, Q was a wanted criminal at the moment, and had hacked MI6 even if it was Raoul Silva who had done the worst of the damage.

The thought soured his mood a bit, because Bond wasn’t oblivious: Q had to be just about frantic with nerves at the thought of being returned to the same people who’d sent a killer after them. Bond just hoped that having that same killer at his side, now as an ally, would keep him from rabbiting at the first opportunity. MI6 wouldn’t take kindly to having to start a second man-hunt, and chances were high that another agent would be put to the task, what with 007 out of commission and very clearly compromised.

Because Bond was compromised. Quite completely. Given his skill at falsifying information, he could probably hide it, but he didn’t want to do that any more than he wanted to remove his left arm from where it was still fixed under Q in the sand. He looked down at the younger man and shook his head. Trapped indeed.

With his left arm trapped until Q woke and his right one out of commission, that meant no touching though, and 007 made a face at that, even as he tried to contemplate just what he was to Q. Considering how close they’d come to ending up in each other’s pants… He was willing to bet they were more than just friends. Liking that thought, 007 leaned down and pressed his mouth to the straight, almost aristocratic line of Q’s nose, breathing over the little indents left from wearing glasses so often.

Quint’s eyes blinked open lazily, slowly focussing a little, then slipped closed again, but a soft smile had made its way onto Q’s face. “Hello world,” he said in a sleepy voice, lips quirking as if he’d made some joke that Bond was missing.

“You’re awfully chipper this morning,” Bond took it all as a good sign, or a sign that Q had forgotten about MI6, “Can I trust that you’re even awake, or am I going to get slapped for this later?” Leaning a little further onto his elbow so his body started to arch over Q’s - not touching anywhere yet besides where his forearm pillowed Q’s head - the blonde-haired man peppered a few more light kisses onto Q’s nose-tip, left eyebrow and one closed eyelid. He was teasing a line he hadn’t crossed yet, and having a delightful time doing it.

Quint let him, smile never falling from his face. “I deny everything,” he said, turning onto his back and pulling Bond with him. “Not morning yet…”

“You know, I could really get to like morning-you,” the agent commented, shifting his weight obligingly and managing to put his body with both elbows on either side of Q’s shoulder without making the pain in his arm any worse (it was going to hurt anyway after all, so he may as well do as he wished so long as it didn’t hurt _more_ ). Still, it limited his range of motion a bit, he noticed with annoyance even as the fingertips of his left hand played with the slice of skin revealed where Q’s shirt had hiked up. He was hungry for more than that, but had tried fooling around with broken ribs before, and the memory wasn’t a happy one. Dropping his head down into Q’s throat, he growled his annoyance, “I’d get to like you a lot more if I weren’t so bloody banged up.”

“Not morning. I deny it,” Q mumbled, one arm settling around Bond, the other carding through his hair, using the slightest scratch of nails to massage his scalp. Q seemed determined to postpone ‘morning’ and all its connotations and responsibilities as long as he possibly could. The smile though, seemed to dampen a bit at the mention of Bond’s injuries. Determined not to let his own shortcomings bother what was amounting to an absolutely wonderful morning (or not-morning, as the hacker seemed to insist), Bond shifted his weight again, left arm once more taking most of his weight while some more of it settled onto Q’s supine frame.

“Whatever you say, Q,” he murmured absentmindedly before latching his mouth onto the side of Q’s neck and sucking just enough so that he knew the skin would redden - a pretty stain against pale skin. The sunburn would hide it if Q disliked the idea.

Q seemed completely on board with it, though. He let his head fall back further to expose his neck and let out a small noise, barely more than a breath, but more than enough affirmation to a man like Bond. The larger man made a notably deeper sound in response - hot breath against smooth skin - before putting to use some of his more enjoyable skills, biting down a bit where he’d just sucked. In a possessive response that may or may not have been involuntary, he let himself sink down a bit more. If Q had any interest in getting up now, he’d have to shift a good portion of 007’s weight out of the way first, as muscle and bone caged him down to the sand - muscle and bone that happened to be attached to a very capable mouth, which seemed intent on making a wonderful mess up and down the column of Q’s exposed throat. “God, I’m so glad I didn’t kill you,” Bond gasped, clenching a hand as his splinted arm spasmed, but barely feeling it at the moment. So far as romantic phrases went, it wasn’t much, but Bond was a 00-agent. If he ever spoke his mind, what came out of his mouth wasn’t always for the faint of heart.

Q huffed and the hand in Bond’s hair that had gone from petting to gripping just moments before, moved to swat halfheartedly at Bond’s head before it wrapped in Bond’s short hair once more, pulling him even closer. “I’ll say,” Q rasped out, a laugh rocking his throat under Bond’s lips.

“And here I thought you liked the truth,” the agent teased, then teased more by laving his tongue over Q’s pulse-point before dropping down to breathe words - low, sultry, and gravelly - into the hollow of his throat, “I could tell you such wonderful lies.” He nipped at skin, judging when he was on the verge of putting too much of his weight on Q by the feel of that leaner chest inhaling and exhaling beneath him - and then keeping himself poised at that point. If he could make sure Q couldn’t forget him by presence alone, he’d do it. “You know, it’s rather nice to be with someone who wants the truth, but I have to constantly keep reminding myself not to talk about things like gun maintenance and the unending annoyance of the villains who feel they’re badass enough to monologue at me.”

At this Q finally opened his eyes, if only to give Bond a look that was somewhere between annoyed and incredulous. “You know, if this is your definition of either dirty talk or pillow talk, it really, _really_ needs some work!” the younger man said, using his hold on Bond’s hair to pull his head back so they could actually look each other in the eye.

“Oh,” the man said playfully, eyes alight and feigning innocence he definitely didn’t have, “You wanted dirty talk? How about this…?” Letting Q keep hold of his short hair, the agent pressed down with his body until it was just a little closer to uncomfortable - enough to force a grunt of air from the smaller man beneath him - “How about I take you right here on the sand, hmm? Anyone coming by could see - Sam has already shown a great interest in watching…” Bond made a humming noise as if considering, then bent his head down (ignoring Q’s grip now) to find a patch of skin usually hidden by the collar of Q’s shirt, sucking at it and worrying it with his teeth.

Q groaned and let his head fall back to the sand. “You-” he stopped for a moment, his breath catching, “are incorrigible. Are you even real? Should I check for cyborg parts? Maybe an AI for a brain?” He let out a laugh, only to have it stutter and turn into a moan as Bond attacked his collarbone. “Speaking of Sam…”

Q wrapped his legs around Bond’s waist and pushed at his good shoulder, all the while rolling both of them over in a controlled tumble that Bond allowed, until the larger man’s back hit the sand instead. “There, I’ll bet this makes things a lot easier on both of us…” he said, smirking. He now had his knees on either side of Bond’s hips, his ass pressed exactly where Bond wanted it to be. His eyes sparkled mischievously as he sat up and Bond let out a groan at the movement.

“Yes, much, much better…” he said. He seemed to consider, then groped around until he managed to find his glasses. “The view,” he said as he put them on, “Is spectacular as well.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” was the pleased response, as Bond got used to the new position with a slow roll of his torso, eyes lighting up as he watched Q’s face. The fingers of his left hand slid up under Q’s shirt without hesitation, calloused palms and the edges of the bandage running against the flat planes of Q’s stomach. “If you could be so kind as to unbutton my shirt, I’d be _more_ than happy to return the favor,” he offered in a low undertone.

“Hmmm I do like unwrapping my gifts…” Q said, a predatory glint in his eyes. His hands went to the first button on Bond’s shirt, but his movements were slow and concise, as if he was savouring every second of it. “Slowly…” He popped the first button open, but instead of immediately going on to the second button, he took the time to explore the small bit of skin he’d revealed, pulling the shirt aside a bit, but only barely. “Very slowly…” His hands moved to play with the second button, long elegant finger circling it, then slipping away again and sliding the slightest bit between the second and third button, caressing the bit of skin there. The slight touch, barely there, brought ghost bumps to Bond’s skin. When he pressed his chest up, wanting more, the evil bugger just laughed and bowed down to press a kiss just above the button, his ass doing very interesting things to Bond’s cock. “Revealing…” Q said, as he finally popped open the second button, then nosed the shirt aside and explored the skin with soft kisses before licking it. “My present…” He said, popping open the third button. He let out a laugh. “People did always get annoyed at that…”

“Did they?” was the answer, a breathy edge roughening Bond’s words in the best way. “Can’t imagine why. Care to speed it up a bit before I get impatient and just start unwrapping _my_ present?” Until now, his hands had been remarkably well behaved, both resting on the tops of Q’s thighs.

“Oh, but one has to properly savour what one is given, don’t you think…? The anticipation is, after all, half the fun…” He nipped at the skin he’d been paying attention to and popped open another button. Instead of going on though, he pulled the shirt aside enough to show Bond’s nipples and kissed one, then the other, licking them and, when that got him a hitched breath, dragged his teeth over them. “Always wanted to try that… I could, of course, stop, if you’d rather…?” Q’s voice was husky, and there was a joy in it that Bond had seldom heard, but there was also the slightest bit of uncertainty concealed in that last question.

The uncertainty rasped against something in Bond’s chest, and both of his hands tightened down on the smaller man’s legs before one of them came up to roughly catch Q’s chin, dragging him up for a heated kiss. “If you’re waiting for me to tell you to stop, you’ll be waiting an awfully long time,” the man assured him when they pulled back for breath. His left hand caressed down the side of Q’s face, then neck, thumbing at the love-bites he’d already left, before hooking two fingers at the neck of his shirt. “That being said, your loitering is going to cost you your shirt very, very soon,” he added in an unrepentant growl.

Q let out a laugh. “But it’s so much more fun this way…” he said, moving his fingers to play with both Bond’s nipples at once, then shifting down so that he could pay some more attention to the skin just above Bond’s shirt with his tongue. Bond let out a groan and closed his eyes for a moment as Q rolled his hips against Bond’s.

“All right. That’s enough teasing,” was the sudden grunt, and then 007 proved just how dexterous he could be with a broken arm and lacerated palm. Never dislodging Q - it was pretty obvious by now how much he enjoyed the attention - the agent attacked the buttons on his shirt, actually starting from the bottom and working his way up. Despite the fact that he was working mostly one-handed, and with the smaller man above him, he did the job with quick efficiency. He also did it without touching Q’s skin once. “You’re not the only one who can tease,” the blonde man threatened with a wolfish smirk, fingers curling into the edges of Q’s shirt where it now gaped open from hem to neckline, making it clear that _he_ was going to be the one to remove it. _If_ he removed it.

Q laughed. “Let’s face it Bond, when it comes to a game of patience… Who do you think will win, hmmm?” He laughed again, seemingly unconcerned. “Besides, I’ve got all of this to focus on…” He popped open another button, only two remaining closed now, and allowed his hands to explore James’ chest, touching everywhere, tracing his abs with a light finger before pinching a nipple, licking Bond’s collarbone, then sucking on his neck, all the while taking in Bond’s reactions with eyes that were way too sharp and focussed. It wasn’t that he wasn’t enjoying himself… Bond could _feel_ the evidence of that, it was just that he was taking all of that focus he’d displayed the night before and putting it to another task entirely… And it seemed that that task was driving Bond crazy. Every movement Q’s body made, Bond could feel where Q’s ass was resting against his cock. It was maddening. And Bond’s shirt was still not completely open.

“You’re just bloody lucky I’m a cripple right now,” the agent threatened, but his words were only twenty-percent bite - the rest was all play. Suddenly - clearly ignoring his own words of caution - he coiled up out of his passive position on the ground, an action that came easily for a man who was all muscle. Sitting up with a coil of abdominal muscles, he forced Q back against his bent knees, laughing blue eyes close to his face. The movement ground them together again, and 007 let his eyes fluttered closed for a moment, something he usually had to be careful of with a partner, but wasn’t with Q. He thought he liked that almost more than the heady feel of Q’s lean body against his, more than watching intelligence run rampant behind those cracked glasses. “Fine then,” he murmured, delighting in giving in, because submitting didn’t mean losing when you played it right, “You win. Let me repay you.” With that, he pushed at Q’s jaw with his mouth, dragging his teeth against the sharp line of bone before licking little patches right underneath his chin as Q’s hands took to roaming his shoulders. As much as he loved seeing that arc of pale skin when Q stretched his neck back, though, he had other plans in mind, and used that moment to push Q’s shirt back off his shoulders with a trickster’s grace. He made sure Q’s arms stayed tangled in the fabric. “I don’t play fair any more than you do,” he warned a bit belatedly, then licked a stripe up the middle of Q’s bared chest, speaking into the heartbeat fluttering at the hollow between his collarbones, “but I can promise to make it worth your while.”

Q pulled against the shirt. When it sunk in that he was effectively stuck, arms trapped behind him and resting around Bond’s knees, he went rigid, his eyes wide. Bond was about a second away from ripping the shirt away when Q’s eyes suddenly seemed to glaze over, the pupils blown wide. He let out a breath, the sound high and keening as he allowed his head to fall back, baring his throat. “Fuck…” he exhaled.

Bond’s eyes lit up with pleasant surprise, sudden avarice darkening his eyes from opaque sapphire to a dirty cobalt nearly swallowed by pupil. Q had teased about unwrapping Bond like a present, but this was an unlooked-for gift, and as Bond’s fingers snarled in the material of Q’s shirt, he grazed Q’s skin - pale, unscarred, slightly sunburnt, and at least for now all his - with a burning gaze. “There are so many things I’d like to do to you…” he promised in a growl, immediately lavishing attention on one nipple, returning Q’s affections on him, with interest, before letting the curl of his breath rush over it. “I love the way you shiver,” he found the adorations pouring out - all truth, no lies, from a man who usually breathed falsehood and wore a mask like a second-skin - when he wasn’t scraping skin with his teeth, caressing it with his mouth, “The way you arch…” His right arm hurt, but with his left hand keeping Q’s arms trapped by his shirt, 007 was still able to drag blunt fingernails down the taut planes of Q’s stomach to snag at the hem of his trousers, playing over the fasteners. Bond’s body remained curled forward against Q’s, mouth now over his Adam’s-apple, just scraping it with his teeth almost lovingly. “...Everything,” he finished like a groaned benediction, a solemnly sworn truth.

Q's moan, when it came, was unrestrained and low. His breath was coming in audible gasps now and he arched his back, pressing himself into Bond's hands a little more with each word the man spoke. "Bond-" he gasped and it seemed like he wanted to say more, but the words stuck in his throat.

“Full sentences, Q,” Bond coaxed around a smile, but purposefully did all in his power to make that command impossible to follow, as he angled his head to nudge behind Q’s jaw, nipping and then sucking hard right behind the hinge, feeling it when Q’s mouth opened slightly under the rough application of varying pressure. Meanwhile, the teasing fingers of his right hand slipped past the hem of Q’s trousers so that the backs of his fingertips were brushing against the vulnerable skin just on the inside of the hacker’s sharp hipbone. His own blood surging through him right now so that he was almost painfully hard in his trousers beneath Q, Bond was about to see just what noises he could get Q to make - or how long he could keep him from stringing together any words than weren’t his name - when there was a sound he’d almost thought he’d never hear again.

The incoming drone of plane engines.

Q didn’t seem to hear, or if he did, he seemed to discard the sound. When Bond stopped and released the restraining grip on his shirt, though, he looked up at him with cloudy eyes, questioning and uncertain. “Bond…?” he asked quietly. “What…?” His body had stilled and his hands slipped to Bond’s shoulders, easily freeing himself now that he’d quieted, when his eyes slowly cleared and the sound registered and the question faded away. The uncertainty though, stayed.

The moment had been broken, and 007 would have just about killed to get it back - in fact, for this, he was definitely going to give Alec a thrashing, although he doubted he’d be so lucky as to catch him on the plane. Already, other people were seeing the dots approaching rapidly on the horizon, and the whooping and hollering almost drowned out their sound. Bond looked back to Q, to his questioning eyes, and felt hard regret twist in his stomach even as he looked over his own actions with something like shock. He could still taste triumph and the honeyed tang of perfect pleasure on the back of his tongue every time he thought of Q just giving in to him - the same Q who usually argued with him, wasn’t afraid to order him around, and who generally showed more spine than people twice his size. In all the lovers he’d had, he couldn’t remember anything quite like that, but the almost animal surge of affection was also new, and shocking, now that he’d been jolted out of the moment.

“I…” He was tongue-tied, out of step with his own actions. With the plane approaching, he didn’t have time to reconcile himself with any of that right now though. All he could do was shut his mouth, hope that his eyes conveyed something useful, and curl a bandaged hand around the bottom of Q’s ribcage. ‘ _I’m here_ ,’ the gesture said, as he pressed his palm against the hacker’s skin, ‘ _I’m yours as much as you’re mine, but I can’t say it yet._ ’

Q’s hands tightened on Bond’s shoulders, but for a long moment, he didn’t let go. They just sat there, listening as the sound of choppers slowly overtook the sound of those calling out to them.

There were three, large and military grade, each easily large enough to hold twenty people. By the time they were close enough that any speech was impossible, Q shot Bond a look that managed to be both apologetic, slightly panicked, and determined all at once. He jumped up and pulled his shirt back on, buttoning it. Then he seemed to hesitate a moment before offering Bond a hand up. He didn’t meet Bond’s eyes, but the line of his mouth and set of his jaw reminded Bond of all the other times he’d seen Q prepare for something he really didn’t want to do, but did anyway out of some incomprehensible sense of duty.

Allowing Q’s wiry strength to catalyze his motion, Bond regained his feet as well, not bothering to straighten out his shirt but reaching down for his holster so that he could strap it on over his gaping shirt. The motions were familiar, the constraining feel of the holster comforting, and it all served to ground him even as the leftover lust continued to burn in his system like a frustrated fire. “You organize the passengers, I’ll see who Alec sent us?” Bond asked with brevity, turning to Q with raised brows and a firmer sense of his role in the world.

For a moment Q looked like he would ask just what Bond had said, the sound of the choppers drowning out every other sound. Then he seemed to reach some conclusion and gave a nod, grabbed his laptop off the sand and walked off in the direction of the camp and the choppers.

~*~


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they fly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, _so_ sorry. I honestly thought I'd pressed post on this and here it is, still sitting in an open tab as it was when I left for the weekend. I'd started thinking the lack of comments meant you guys didn't like it...

As Q walked to the camp, he pushed his churning emotions down. Nothing seemed to make sense right now, not even his thoughts. He just knew that everything had felt so good and right and when Bond had trapped his arms… He didn’t have much to compare it with, but he was pretty sure he’d never experienced anything like _that_ during sex… And then of course the choppers turned up, and they’d stopped and… Why did it feel like being abandoned? It made no bloody sense. Bond had done nothing wrong, had done everything right, in fact, and still he felt like… like… He honestly didn’t know what he felt like.

What he did know, though, was that he had no time to feel like that. There was stuff to be done. Someone had to get everyone ready to go. Had to make sure all the baggage was taken, even the things of the ones who hadn’t survived. Their families deserved something back, at least.

He shivered. Despite the sun’s glare, all the warmth - heat, his head supplied - from earlier was gone and he felt cold. He promised himself that he’d get a sweater later and walked on.

Nearly everyone had gathered on the beach to see the choppers arrive. The first one was now landing, and the sound was deafening. For a moment, he was tempted to try and yell over it, but the thought was discarded just as quickly. It’d be useless.

Instead, he looked around and soon found Sam. She was standing a little further on the beach, halfway between the chopper and her infirmary. He walked over to her. When she spotted him, her smile grew into a grin that spoke volumes on what she thought he’d been up to just now. He answered her with a grin of his own that he didn’t really feel. She gave him a considering look, but otherwise didn’t try to say anything before he was right next to her.

“You did it, Quint!” she yelled, “They’re actually here!”

Q didn’t feel like the praise was warranted. It wasn’t like he’d really done anything anyone else couldn’t have done, and everyone had done their parts. Not knowing how to reply to it, he didn’t answer at all.

When the chopper finally landed and the noise died down to manageable levels, Q felt like uttering a sigh of relief. The large sliding door to the side of the chopper opened and a few men in military get-up got out. “Flight Delta six five three gamma seven? We’ve been told to talk to one Commander Sterling?” one of them called out, looking at the assorted ragtag band of people.

Q watched as Bond approached and started talking to the man, his body language professional and efficient. He wondered if Bond felt just as off-kilter as he did, but quickly discarded the idea. He was just being an idiot, a condition that Bond, despite what everyone might say, wasn’t given to under these sorts of circumstances. He took a fortifying breath, briskly locked the last of his muddled emotions away, and stepped forward.

“Everyone, please listen for a moment!” he called out, and wow, it would never stop surprising him how these people just turned to him and looked at him like he held all the answers. “We’re going home! I-”

He had to stop then, because a roar of applause and cheers went up from the people gathered around him. He stood there, a bit self-conscious, until they quieted down. “Before we can go, though, I think we should gather everything we can, even those things we still don’t know the owner of. Someone might want them back…” His voice had gone quiet at that last sentence, and he worked hard to ban the images of those hours they’d spend getting the last people out of the plane and of their improvised wake. He shuddered, but soldiered on.

“Gather your own things first, then see what you can do for those who are still wounded and can’t take care of their own things. Those things that are left, even if we’ve been using them, we can gather in one place, by the chopper maybe, and just… Well. Make sure at least something of theirs is taken home.”

There were nods, and some people seemed uncomfortable, but for most, it seemed the topic couldn’t truly overcome their elation.

Q felt happy for them, he did. They would go back to their families and in some small way, he’d helped that come about. He shivered again, cold still not receded. Around him, it was quiet a moment longer. Then it seemed everyone realised he was done, and they all started talking at once. Q himself smiled at Sam but before she could say whatever was obviously on the tip of her tongue, he turned and walked to gather his own things.

When he got there, the mattress he'd been using was gone, but his things were still there. As were some of Bond's things that had been migrating over to Q's spot over the course of the last few days of 'sleepwalking', though there was little enough of those that it almost didn't matter.

Q allowed himself to sink into the sand. It felt hot against his skin. He fingered a button-down shirt that looked like it had once cost more than Quint's entire wardrobe but was now bleached and ripped and ripe for the trash.

He was a fool. A grand bloody fool. Pining after someone like Bond like he was some lovestruck teenager, confessing to his crimes like some amateur, just handing himself over to the very organisation that wanted him dead... How had he let things get this far?

And yet... His mind helpfully supplied him with the memory of that last look Bond had given him, after the choppers arrived. Of the things that'd preceded that. There was _something_ there. Had to be. Except it was probably just wishful thinking. What was a little seduction and some kinky sex to someone like Bond? The man was so far out of Q’s league it was laughable. He should've trusted his instincts.

Q shivered again, despite the burning sun, and turned to dig through his suitcase. It didn't take him long to find what he was looking for. He slipped on his hoodie and it felt a little like adding a protective layer between him and the world. He zipped it up and allowed himself to cuddle into its familiar warmth. He was going to need it.

Taking a deep breath, he grabbed those things of Bond's lying around and dumped them in his own suitcase to return later, juggled his suitcase, hand luggage and laptop before finding a way to carry them all and started making his way to the first chopper just as the second and third choppers were coming down.

Bond was already working with Alec’s men to load up the choppers. Monstrous contraptions that they were, they’d landed with a lot of space between them, and continued the buffet the sand into tiny pellets as the blades spun. True to Bond’s warning, the men manning them had a rough look, but their eyes weren’t any more grim than 007’s were, and they looked more focused than threatening. Some men were already trotting off towards Sam, ostensibly to help her move those who couldn’t walk. Apparently, Alec and Bond only knew insanely athletic people, because these blokes would have no trouble carrying things, it looked like.

Even with broken bones, Bond himself was determined to be useful, but at least seemed to be restricting himself to shouting orders and keeping people moving. His eyes snapped up to Q’s the instant he was in sight though, and then the man was jogging over with smooth, loping steps. “Q!” he called, still having to use quite a bit of volume to be heard - the choppers clearly weren’t going to stop, but instead were primed to remove everyone as swiftly as possible. “Everyone doing as told? Any reason we can’t leave quickly?” Bond glanced back at the choppers, then at the island, then back at Q, expression turning rueful, “I’d bloody like to leave as soon as possible.”

Q flinched at the unbidden thought that it wasn’t just the island Bond was so eager to leave. And indeed, what leaving in one of those _things_ would entail. He pushed the thoughts away and shrugged. “It seems like everyone is doing all they can.” He eyed the growing pile of luggage near the first chopper, eyes never quite focussing on the choppers themselves. “What’s the plan?” he asked then, tone empty of any emotions.

Broad shoulders shrugged. A few more buttons on his shirt had magically done themselves up at some point, but 007 still looked roguish yet suave as the wind tore at his shirt, revealing broad wedges of tanned skin. “Pretty simple: Alec’s men are going to take us back to familiar soil just as soon as everyone’s on board and the injured stabilized. MI6 will meet us when we land.” Bond pulled back just enough to meet Q’s gaze with something like apology, because he was well aware that this couldn’t be the hacker’s ideal welcoming committee. Blue gaze still on Q’s green-hazel eyes, Bond said in a tone that was less businesslike and more sympathetic, “It’ll be alright, Q.”

Q didn’t meet his eyes. “Of course. Let’s get everything packed and loaded,” was all he said before walking off at a brisk pace.

~*~

Q was the last to board the chopper, and Bond sagged a little when the hacker came into view. He’d kept a place open for the man, but honestly wasn’t sure if that wasn’t wistful thinking. When Q spotted him, however, he quickly made his way over, but still didn’t meet his eyes. The teens, sitting a little further over, greeted him and people nodded at him, but he didn’t even seem to notice them.

The man was tense, muscles locked up, his laptop case pressed to his chest like a life-line, arms wound around it and himself. He sat down in the chair next to Bond stiffly and started strapping himself in. It was then that Bond noticed he was actually shaking.

The sounds of the chopper blades were still too loud to speak over, so Bond had to reach over to grip Q’s shoulder to get his attention. “Q!” he hollered to him, “You okay?” He pressed his fingers down against lean muscle and bone, as if to keep the hacker from flying away.

The doors to the side of the chopper closed and for a moment the sound dulled, but then it intensified as the chopper started rising.

Q flinched, but not away from Bond’s touch. He just gripped his case tighter and ducked further into his sweater, which was oversized to begin with, and stared at his feet like they held the answers to the universe.

For a moment, Bond and the other passengers stared uncomprehendingly, but suddenly something clicked into place in Bond’s mind and his eyes widened. He squeezed down a bit harder on Q’s shoulder before turning and unbuckling himself, ignoring the voices that tried to tell him all the ways in which that was a bad idea. Perhaps because they were used to dealing with Alec, who never met a rule he didn’t break gleefully, the actual people in charge of the chopper just looked at him warily and then shrugged. No one could hear anyone over the droning around them anyway. Bond moved in front of Q, going down on one knee to keep his balance as they lurched upwards, and pressed his hands on either side of the hacker’s head as if trying to muffle the roar. “Q.” He didn’t bother raising his voice, because it was pointless even if he weren’t covering Q’s ears as he held his head firmly. “Q, look at me.” He made him, tipping his head.

Q’s shaking was getting more intense, Bond could feel it through his hands. When Q’s eyes met Bond’s, wide and frightened, the pupils were dilated enough to swallow up most of Q’s irises. His mouth was slightly open and he his breath was picking up and going erratic, like he was running a bloody marathon sitting in his seat. Bond could practically see the anxiety taking hold of him.

Knowing that speaking questions was useless, Bond simply mouthed, “Phobia?” now that he had Q’s eyes on him, although his focus was still in question.

For a long moment, it looked like Q wouldn’t respond. Then Bond felt his head move in a nod. “I keep seeing…” was all he got out, and even then Bond only recognized the words because he could read lips.

Despite the ache in his arm, Bond kept his palms pressed against Q’s ears, thumbs beginning to stroke soothing, unconscious lines from the corners of Q’s panicked eyes back to his hairline, following the smooth arms of his glasses as Bond nodded encouragingly. “Me,” he finished the sentence, grabbing ideas out of thin air, thinking back to the other occasions he’d dealt with hostage victims - the closest he could come right now to understanding Q’s fear, “You keep seeing me.” Recalling for a moment that perfect image back on the beach, 007 buried his fingers a little deeper in Q’s hair, a solid little tug against his scalp to ground him in Bond’s physical presence.

“You…” Q breathed, and then his eyes snapped wide open again, words tumbling out all over each other, quick and panicked and choked. “Hurt. So hurt. Blood…! I’m not gonna make it to land! Can’t keep him up! You’ll die and I’ll die and they’ll die and we’re going to crash! We’re going to crash! So much blood. So much blood! No! We’re going to crash! Let me out! We’re going to crash! Let me out! Let me _out_!”

He started struggling against his seatbelt, but didn’t have the coordination to get it loose. Was just pulling at the straps. The laptop case crashed to the floor and Q jumped and started pulling at his belt more frantically, but he seemed to be somewhere else. Sometime else.

“Q!” Bond raised his voice on impulse, knowing enough about panic attacks to understand Q’s want to get loose and move around. Unfortunately, they were in the air, and even just Bond walking about was a risk. Feeling guilty, he caught hold of Q’s hands, dragging his wrists down and towards him and hoping Q’s attention would follow. “Q, I’m right here! No blood. No water. That already happened,” he explained in short sentences whenever those wide eyes were on him.

“Let me out! Please just let me out!” Q was screeching now. His breath was coming in pants and gasps that were way too fast. “I can’t- so much blood- I can’t stop- No! Let me out let me out let me out let me out let me out let me-” He started crying then, his eyes squeezed closed but the tears made their way out anyway, tried pulling his balled fists out of Bond’s hands as if the touch was burning him.

“I can’t, Q,” Bond said back, feeling frustration knotting in his chest like a fist. Someone behind him was yelling, but if Q’s panic attack sparked others, someone else would have to bloody well deal with it. He let go of Q’s wrists only to edge forward, kneeling up and feeling Q’s jerking knees against his sides. One thrashing wrist he caught again, and dragging it flush to his chest. “Q. Q!” he shouted until his voice was loud enough to hear, “Breathe, Q - just like this.” Long fingers were spasming against his skin where 007’s shirt was still open, and he shifted it over so that Q would feel his inhales and exhales...which weren’t exactly perfectly calm, but as a 00-agent, he could at least fake it.

“Breathe… Need to breathe. Can’t breathe! I can’t breathe! Let me out! Let me out!” Q’s hand seemed to be grasping for something, the other fisted in his hair, pulling, as the man curled further in on himself. “I can’t breathe!”

Swiftly losing control of the situation, Bond took a risk and made good use of Q’s slow, inward collapsing, because it allowed him to lean in even closer until his mouth was up by Q’s left ear. He was well and truly in Q’s personal space right now, but the unfortunate hacker could hardly get more trapped than he already was by the seat-belts strapping him in, so Bond forged ahead now that Q could hear him. Voice as steady as a mountain, Bond commanding as calmly as he could, “Breathe with me then. Come on, Q, you can do that. Just breath with me.” Helpfully, he hoped, he exhaled against the shell of Q’s ear, squeezing the wrist he still held to his chest.

At first it seemed to have no effect. Q stopped talking, stopped screaming, but the gasping sobs were no better. Tears were still streaking his cheeks. Sometimes, it seemed like he was trying to choke something out, but it didn’t make it past his lips. When Bond tried to pull away however, convinced he’d done the wrong thing, Q’s hand suddenly gripped in his shirt and pulled him closer. “No!” he gasped out between gasping breaths. “No don’t-!”

“Okay, okay,” the agent soothed, more than happy to do whatever Q wanted or needed right now. Impulsively, he pressed his lips briefly to Q’s cheek just in front of his ear before going back to talking, “Can you breathe in with me, Q? Come on, love…” His voice was edging into pleading rather rapidly, but he held onto the calmness because it had been trained into him like an iron spike. “In… Out… In… Out… Easy does it. In… Out… In… Out…”

Q fell silent again, breathing still erratic, but the hand grabbing Bond’s shirt never loosened, like an anchor in the storm. And finally, finally, his breathing started evening out a little bit. Q’s muscles seemed to go limp all in one go, like a puppet with it’s strings cut, all except for the hand still desperately clenching the shirt. Q was curling in on himself now, as far as the belts and his hold on Bond’s shirt would let him. He was still shaking uncontrollably, and the tears hadn’t stopped, but if felt… Different. Like the worst was past.

Everyone else was smart enough not to approach, and Bond breathed a sigh of relief that was lost in the drone of the machine around them. His right arm hurt like a bitch, so he released his grip on Q’s wrist, pleased when it stayed against his skin, and relocated his hand to slither past the netting of straps and belts until he could stroke Q’s back. “Good, Q. Perfect.” He turned his head to press kisses into that thick mess of hair. It was shocking how relieved he himself felt, and only now did Bond admit that his heart was hammering in his chest. “Tell me what you need,” seemed the only thing he could think to say, because he never wanted to see Q like that again. Unspoken - but maybe audible in his fervent tone - went the rest of his thoughts, ‘ _I’d uproot mountains, drag down angels, unseat kings - just tell me how to help you_ … _!!_ ’

Q didn’t respond, his breathing gasping, gulping breaths in between jarring sobs, his body still shaking. He just sat there, clutching at Bond and hunching in on himself, what Bond could see of his face scrunched up and tear streaked.

They sat there for what seemed like an eternity, Bond could feel his muscles stiffening, protesting the awkward position he was keeping himself in, but he paid them no mind. He’d had far worse for far less important reasons. Around them, the people were silent, excitement over their rescue gone in the face of seeing one of their own brought so low. After a while, hushed murmurs started as people started talking to the people next to him, and Bond caught the name ‘Quint’ being mentioned a number of times. Q, however, didn’t seem to be aware of anything. He just sat there, and so Bond stayed where he was, one palm still mapping out Q’s shuddering back with easy strokes. Sometimes he’d murmur something, but he wasn’t aware of what, just focusing on his tone and keeping Q calm for the rest of the flight.

When a voice over the intercom finally announced that they were about about to land in Grand Mercure Karachi Airport, Pakistan, it seemed everyone let out a collective sigh.

 


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bond is a Quint-searching-missile, Quint has a row with a truly moronic doctor and Sam is saved from a charge of assault by the fact that she doesn't have her medical licence on hand.

The one upside of choppers versus a plane was that the landing wasn’t spectacularly worse than the take-off. Clearly, Alec’s men were experts, even if they had a questionable background. Still, there was the familiar sensation of one’s stomach jumping up into everyone’s throats as they lost altitude, and Bond gritted his teeth as he thought about what that did to Q. He could feel the man’s breathing picking up again, could feel his muscles tightening, but he managed to keep it together until a loud thud finally, _finally_ announced their arrival on solid land.

Around them, the chopper was suddenly plunged into silence as the motors cut out and everyone seemed to hold their breath. Then, the doors were yanked open from the outside and warm sunlight flooded in and everyone burst into cheers.

Q however, still hadn’t moved, face pale in the sunlight, hand still trembling against Bond’s chest.

People started streaming out, but Bond still didn’t move, fingers massaging aimless little circles around the knobs of Q’s spine. Then, he felt a touch to his arm. It was Ishya, holding Q’s laptop, and staring at their boss with concern written all over her face. Behind her were the three others, not much better off.

“Is he- Will he be alright?” Hasan asked, using his length to peer over Ishya’s shoulder.

“He will be,” Bond immediately answered, willing that to be true as much as anything else. He gave Q a bit more time, knowing that if he were Q, he’d prefer to keep his tear-streaked face hidden a little longer. Nuzzling the head tucked near his shoulder, Bond finally moved his hands to begin carefully unbuckling Q, glancing back over the hacker’s head long enough to command in a calm tone, “Go help the others. Sam was on the chopper with the wounded - ask her if she has anything…” He was going to say anything that would knock Q clean out for any and all flights after this, but chose the more tactful route, “Anything that might help Quint out a bit.” Bond gave himself a metaphorical pat on the back for actually using Q’s full name for once, then gave Q’s arm a little caress, ready to remove the seat-belt harness but unwilling to remove Q forcefully from his person to do so.

The teens looked between the door and Q a couple of times, obviously reluctant to leave their boss. Finally Tara stepped back and turned to the door. “Come on guys, not much more we can do here… We might as well be useful!”

Raman and Hasan quickly followed, but Ishya hesitated a moment longer before offering the laptop. “I- Well- Could you please make sure we get to say goodbye? Someone said we get to go straight back to Dehli after this, but you’re from England, aren’t you? So you’re going to England. Don’t leave without saying goodbye? The rest wanted to ask too but…” She pulled a face, wrinkling her nose. “I don’t think they really know how.”

A real smile with actual warmth tugged up the sides of Bond’s mouth, and he said with a gently playful tone, “I wouldn’t dream of leaving without goodbyes - and I imagine Q will want to give hugs to you and your fellow monsters, before we ship off back to London.”

A relieved smile spread over the girl’s face and she put the laptop down in the abandoned seat next to Q. “Alright, see you in a bit!” she said, much more cheerful, and wandered off.

Already, Bond was tallying the odds of finding something that would save Q from another panic attack on the inevitable plane to England, but he focused on the here and now as Ishya left. “Hey, Q,” he said, as if this were just an early morning and he were waking him, voice low and easy, “Mind letting go of my shirt for a minute?” He was smiling as he continued with gentle playfulness like the kind he’d often used back on the island, when nothing was threatening and he could be at ease, “I promise you can have it back, but your arms are just a tad in the way of some of these straps…”

Finally, Q seemed to come alive again, the hand slowly letting go and pulling away, wrapping around Q himself instead. “Where-” he said. His voice sounded hoarse and he coughed. “Where are we?” he said, more successful this time.

“Grand Mercure Karachi Airport, Pakistan,” Bond supplied instantly, making quick work of the rest of the straps but not forcing Q to stand yet. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the chopper’s pilot hovering, but at a respectable distance; 007 dismissed him as not a threat. “Solid ground with such natural wonders as indoor toilets, actual medical attention, and - my favorite - running water where we could conceivably get a bloody shower.” He gave Q a lopsided smile, settling down on his haunches in front of him while his mind went idly to the thought of a shower (just one shower, but preferably with both he and Q in it).

Q nodded. “That makes sense, given our location.” The shaking had stopped and as soon as he was loose, he allowed himself to slide out of the seat and into Bond’s arms. For a while, he just sat quietly in the circle of Bond’s arms. Then, finally, from where Q’s head was pressed to his chest, he picked up a whispered “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Bond murmured back to hide the warm rush of pleasure spreading inside of him, “Call it repayment for being an arse whenever you tried to make me sit still for medical attention.”

There was a choked laugh from the direction of Q’s head and after a moment, Bond could feel the other man pulling back to sit up. “We should probably get out…” Suddenly he stiffened. “My laptop! Where’s my laptop?”

“Easy, Q - it’s right here.” He nudged the smaller man to coax him to look around a bit, where the laptop case was clearly visible on the seat next to Q.

The man looked relieved, then snatched it away and got up. “Let’s- Let’s go.”

Bond led the way easily out of the chopper, keeping a close eye on Q without being obvious about it. The chopper pilot raised a grey eyebrow at him, then glanced to Q significantly. Bond shook his head. The pilot shrugged. That was the entirety of the conversation between them before Bond led the way down to the tarmac, where he could already see people milling about with first-aid kits, water bottles, blankets, and all the others things that inevitably came with a safe return like this. “Come on, Q,” he touched Q’s shoulder gently to lead him, spotting Sam and all of the teens minus Raman. “Let’s head this way. The medical professionals look friendlier.”

“You mean Sam lets you get away with more?” Q asked, voice still a little shaky, but seemingly getting some of his normal wit back now that he had his feet on solid ground.

Affecting a wounded expression that would have fooled people who didn’t know him, Bond replied guilelessly, “Now, that’s just hurtful, Q. Sam doesn’t let me get away with anything.”

“Damn straight I don’t,” the woman in question picked up the conversation, glaring meaningfully at Bond’s arm but also casting a relieved look between the two men; apparently the teens had told her about the panick attack on the chopper. “Have you let anyone look at your arm yet?”

Bond flashed her his most charming smile, the kind he usually used to start up conversations with the pretty wives of unassailable targets. “No one but you,” he replied politely, but also stuck next to Q’s side, making his flirting more humorous than serious.

“Of course not,” she said, shaking her head. “Well, they’ve set up a medical team over there…” She pointed to what looked like a hastily pitched tent further along the tarmac. “Say they want to see everyone before we get to go anywhere. Might as well get it over with right away?” She looked between all of them.

Eyes watchful but posture purposefully relaxed, Bond waited to see what Q would want, leery of leaving his side so soon after the debacle on the plane.

Q, however, just nodded. "That should be fine," he said after a moment of what seemed to be considering his options. "Where's Raman?"

"They already took him to the tent," Hasan piped in, "Because of the poison. Quint..." The boy hesitated for a moment, "People are starting to realise Sil- That bastard never got on a plane... They're wondering..."

Training kept Bond from tensing, and the only sign that he was paying attention overly much to the conversation was the way his blue eyes chilled by degrees. The expression around his gaze remained as affable as ever, but inside he was switching from ‘James’ to ‘007.’ Before he could say anything, however, Samp piped up, once glance his way saying she suspected the truth but was avoiding it, “I imagine we could talk to the chopper pilots about that, to go back and look for him again. Right, James?”

Although still averse to leaving Q’s side, this was a problem that would only get bigger if he didn’t deal with it. Respect warmed his expression briefly as he looked at Sam, before Bond pasted on a smile that mixed calmness with worry he didn’t feel for the missing man in the slightest. “I’ll go tell them. I’m sure they’d be more than happy to oblige.” And by ‘oblige’ he meant ‘hide the body’ and make the problem go away. He also planned on getting a minute alone to contact Alec himself. Trading glances between Sam and the teens, Bond finished before he moved to leave, “You lot can watch Quint without my help, right?”

Quint huffed. “I can watch myself, thank you very much” It was the first thing he’d said to indicate that he really was fine now that he had both feet firmly on the ground. “Go do what’s needed. Then get yourself to the infirmary… And don’t think we’ll let you weasel your way out of that!” The raised eyebrow spoke volumes on what he thought of Bond’s ‘attempts’ to get out of seeing a doctor and the others laughed, as much because of the joke as out of relief over Quint’s returned sense of humour.

Relieved in no small part himself, Bond flashed a charming smile that was entirely real - if not entirely sincere, because he reflexively was going over plans to avoid excessive amounts of doctoring (that was just what 00-agents did) - and gave the hacker’s upper arm a warm squeeze before leaving them. He made a beeline for the same pilot who’d watched him so carefully earlier, and was immediately rewarded by the swarthy fellow’s head raising to watch him approach.

It was relatively easy to get the pilot to understand what needed to be done. After making clear that Bond was cut from the same cloth as Alec, only a little bit more instruction was needed to insure that their tracks were covered. Clearly professionals (although of exactly what kind, 007 would have to ask Alec later), the pilot asked the minimal number of questions before whistling up his men, promising to get the chopper back in the air. Not long after, Bond knew that he’d be hearing careful little rumors circulating that they were ‘going back for one last look,’ just as they would return to the airport here and report that they had found no sign of Raoul Silva. In the meanwhile, 007 coaxed a phone out of one of them, just enough to touch base with 006 himself - he immediately got an earful, because the man had been waiting for his call, but it was still lovely to hear the familiar voice. Bond gave him a clearer picture of what had gone on, keeping his phrasing careful until they could get a more secure line. Before long, he hung up again, returned the phone to its taciturn owner, and left the pilot with a respectful nod.

Finding Q was beginning to be second-nature by now, which spoke either of Bond’s attachment or Q’s ability to get into trouble. Regardless, James bristled as he heard raised voices - one of them being Q’s, still in an exam room. Fortunately, Sam was there, too, just outside the door, and stopped him with a tired look. “What’s happening?” 007 asked in a voice just shy of a growl.

“If my licence had any sway here, I’d march in there and hit that _man_ over the head with it…” Her answering growl matched Bond’s in viciousness. “As it stands, I might still do it, just because he can’t possibly have any more brains to lose! That _chutiya chootia_ is refusing to give Quint anything to help calm him down for the flight back. Says he’s not giving anything without a recipe from a certified psychiatrist! We were in a bloody _plane crash_ and the man already had a fear of flying to begin with! We all saw how he reacted on the flight here… How is he going to get through _nine_ more hours? Tell me that, huh?” Her eyes were shooting fire as she glared at the canvas door that hid the offending doctor from her ire.

Mind working quickly, James took in the possibility for this all going downhill very, very quickly, and came up with some solutions that normal people didn’t immediately come to. “Do you know what drug to look for? What the container looks like?” he asked in a low voice, sounding calmer outwardly, but beneath that was a thread of concentrated steel as he eyed the situation shrewdly.

Sam looked at him for a long moment, obviously considering. “He’s most likely to have Xanax, Valium, Klonopin, or Ativan. Packaging may vary, but it should have one of those names on it in big bold letters. Otherwise, go for any tranquilizer or sleep inducer you can get your hands on. I’ll figure out dosage when we get to it… Oh, and I’d really prefer that that pompous ass in there _doesn’t_ know you’re stealing them. Worst case scenario, I could probably come up with a distraction.”

Chuckling low in his throat, Bond assured her with a tone of feigned insult, “You say that like I haven’t been stealing things from under people’s noses for a living. If he notices me, I deserve to be shot. Speaking of shot...” He looked to his holster and gun, which he still had thanks to MI6 pulling strings even this far away. It wouldn’t help him in this instance, though, so he removed it and placed it in Sam’s somewhat startled hands. “Keep an eye on this, if you please.” With that, he moved away from Sam (who looked none-too-happy with her new babysitting job), because Q was coming out at long last, and Bond planned to be the next one in.

The man looked more annoyed and resigned than anything else, but when their eyes met for a moment, Bond could see the fear underlying that, making something jerk painfully in Bond’s chest. The agent didn’t spare time to talk with him - the best present he could give the hacker would be something for another plane trip. 007 more or less slipped into the exam room, putting on a harmless air which he carefully tinged with discomfort, like an actor touching up a painted mask.

A bit surprised by the quick entrance, the doctor - a middle-aged man already gone solidly grey, with his hair thinned out to nothingness at the top - turned around, but was quickly settled by the sight of Bond’s obvious state of injury. The agent reflected ironically that there were some uses to letting himself get so bashed up. “You’re another from the plane crash, aren’t you? Terrible business,” the doctor opened up conversation, before waving Bond to the little exam table, its crinkly covering of paper only just replaced from having Q on it. “Now, can you tell me what’s wrong? Where it hurts? Where are you headed, dear boy?”

Bond nearly laughed at being called ‘dear’ anything, but contained himself, and kept up the facade of being quite harmless and even a bit dazed from the swift change in events. “Well, other people are pretty sure that my arms broken to some degree,” he said, pretending to know less than he did while also keeping Sam from becoming involved, “And my hand.” He extended it as timidly as a man his size could, knowing his his rough appearance would help add to the effect. Dirty, sweaty, clothing unavoidably ripped in places and stubble roughening his jaw - and now unarmed - 007 probably looked dazed at best. This was proven as the doctor turned to take a look at his hand, unwinding its rough bandaging while tutting in a paternal fashion. Bond could have chuckled.

“A Brit then?” the doctor observed as he worked, looking up and raising a brow, “You’re returning home on the next plane then, aren’t you?”

Bond hadn’t had time to check, but was pleased by the news - but also knew that that meant he was on a time-frame now. Apparently a short one. “Yes. Can you just patch me up well enough for the trip back?” He smiled winningly. “I’m sure you’re a busy man, and I’m sure whoever meets us when we land again will be just ecstatic to deal with me.” This time he really had to fight to contain a smirk, because ‘whoever’ was probably MI6, and MI6 Medical _hated_ him.

The doctor seemed more than happy to comply, however, lowering Bond’s opinion on him as he compared to Sam - who thus far had always refused to let James out of her sight until she’d done all she could to put him back together again. While the doctor puttered around, asking inane questions that 007 answered without even thinking, Bond scanned the room, seeing the glass doors to little cabinets, drugs of various kinds behind them. Just as he was thinking up a way to distract the doctor for a minute, there was a discreet knock on the door and a nurse popped her head in. “Doctor? I have a question about another patient.”

As the doctor immediately bustled towards the door, 007 tensed, slipping silently off the bed and to his feet the moment the two medical personnel started talking. The doctor was a large man, both tall and broad enough to block the view of the petite little nurse, effectively creating a blind. There was no way to know how long they’d talk, but Bond had already seen ‘Xanax’ in one of the cupboards - a stroke of luck that probably was due to Q asking for it, even if he ultimately wasn’t given any. It looked as though the doctor had considered it, because the cabinet hadn’t been locked up again. Now, it was child’s play for Bond to liberate the small package, quickly slipping it into his pocket.

By the time the nurse left again and the doctor turned around, Bond was back in his previous position and smiling patiently, looking tired and worn out and not the least bit guilty.

“All right then, let’s see if we can splint that arm and sterilize that gash on your hand,” smiled the doctor, and 007 patiently put up with it all until he could leave as benignly as he’d come in, giving the doctor a thank-you wrapped in smiles that dropped instantly the moment he turned around.

~*~


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sam says the things that need saying, the minions are already planning their next trip, there is lots of hugging and no one is saying goodbye or farewell.

_Chapter 34_

When he returned, it was only to find Q once more surrounded by his minions. The four kids were standing close to him, talking in tones that seemed to fluctuate between sad and excited. Q was speaking back in calm tones, but his face betrayed how much what they were saying was affecting him.

“So I was thinking, Cambridge has a much better architecture program than any of the universities near where we live! If I’m going to have to move across the country anyway, I might as well just go there!” Hasan was saying, grinning.

Beside him, Tara was nodding enthusiastically. “And I’ve always loved Brittain, so…”

“So we’re going to come and visit, even if you can’t come and visit us, boss!” Raman, who’d apparently finally managed to fight off the hordes of medical personnel, added.

The smile Q gave them wasn’t entirely convinced. “We’ll see. First all of you should get home. Your parents must’ve been absolutely terrified. I can just imagine them wanting to keep you close for a while. You have my email address now though… I don’t know how soon I’ll be able to answer that, but I’ll try. That’s all I can promise. Things are going to be… complicated when I get home.”

Wincing because that was likely quite true, James nonetheless smoothed out his features into an easy smile as his arrival became known to the group, Sam’s head turning to him first from where she’d been standing a short ways away to let Q talk with his minions. She arched an eyebrow; Bond nodded almost imperceptibly. Since leaving the doctor’s presence, he’d moved the small packet of Xanax to his hand, and now slipped it into Sam’s as he moved past. He’d let her deal with the drugs; Bond knew a terrifying amount of dosages for poisons, but he didn’t trust himself to give Q what he needed. “Did I miss anything?”

“These four haven’t even gotten back to their parents and they’re already planning their next trip,” Quint said, wrinkling his nose comically to show what he thought of that. “Otherwise, not much. It seems we have though… Is it- Can it be- Are my eyes betraying me or is that your arm, in a proper sling, Bond?”

Sam grinned sharply. “Oh I think we must all be hallucinating, Quint, no two ways around it… Have any of you checked the water they gave us?” she asked, meeting the eyes of the teens and then Quint’s in turn. “It must’ve been laced with something…”

Quint smirked, then put on an expression of mock-fear. “Oh no! We must all be passed out and this has to be some crazy fever dream! Quick, someone, pinch me!”

Instead of pinching, Bond shoved, a light push of his right shoulder since his right arm was well and truly out of commission in a sling. It looked odd, so crisp and white, when he’d either refused to wear a sling or had had his arm bound up in strips of torn cloth. “Ha. Ha,” he made clear his point of view on the joke, but couldn’t hide how one side of his mouth curled up, amusement tucked there. “Yes, I have a sling - that’s what happens when you go to a doctor when you’re back in civilization. It’s harder to find excuses to slip free. I’d still have it off in three seconds, but now Sam’s giving me that look like she’ll skin me if I do.”

“You bet your sexy little ass on it, mister…” Sam said, giving him a predatory grin that was all bark and no bite. “Quint, make sure to keep an eye on him and report back, would you?”

Quint laughed. “Will do, Sam, promise.” He looked at Bond smugly.

Bond’s smile spread a little, easing itself out onto his face and warming his eyes up to a sharp saphire, even though he knew the good mood couldn’t last - in fact, it was due to break just about now, apparently, as the intercom announced their connecting flight back to Britain, specifically mentioning European passengers ‘displaced by the recent incident’. “Awfully gentle way to put it,” Bond grumbled, glancing discreetly to Sam and then darting his eyes to the packet of Xanex hidden in her hand. It was his turn to arch a brow in question at her.

~*~

Around them, a hush went over the gathered passengers as everyone looked around, meeting each other’s eyes. It was an incredible odd thought, leaving these people. They’d known each other for less than a week and yet… And yet it felt like they were more real, more familiar, than anyone out there.

Suddenly, a voice broke through the silence and everyone looked in the direction it’d come from. It was horrid-fashion-sense. Whom, Quint realised with a start, he still didn’t know the name of.

“Excuse me, I don’t know if anyone else is interested in this, but… I really would like to be able to get in touch with all of you. Now while we could all go and desperately try to find each other on facebook, I have another proposal. How about I gather everyone’s names and email addresses and then email that to everyone here? Starting with our European friends, of course…”

A murmur went up around the group. Excitement, mostly, Quint thought. He looked at Bond sideways. It was one thing to give his email to Sam and the kids. Even if he never got to touch another computer in his life… Well, he’d really rather not think that, but even if he did, he could always give Bond the address and password. Maybe he could act as an intermediary. But to just give out his email address to anyone on the plane… That was something different. On one hand, the more people knew about him, knew how to contact him, the harder it would be for MI6 to disappear him. On the other hand, it also meant more people would worry…

The choice was taken out of his hands when horrid-fashion-sense appeared right in front of them though, looking between Quint and Bond. “You two are Brittons, aren’t you? I definitely would like your email address, and I feel a lot of people agree.” For some reason, he was looking at Quint as he said this, only briefly glancing at Bond.

Well, there was nothing for it now. Quint took the offered pen and wrote his name and email on the first line of the paper. He nodded. “There,” he said, unsure of what more to say. “I- I’m aware we’ve only known each other for a few days, but I just wanted to thank you for all you’ve done,” he finally settled on, and then, “Good bye…”

The man’s eyebrows rose. “For all _I_ have done?” he asked, incredulous, “Quint, I think everyone on this airplane owes you a greater debt than can easily be repaid. You too, mister Bond…” he looked up at Bond, but it was more of an aside than anything.

Quint looked at him, confused, but before he could form a reply, the intercom came to life again. Quint swallowed. “It was good meeting you. Please take care and have a safe flight.”

Horrid-fashion-sense nodded solemnly. “You too. Farewell Quint, and get home safe.”

Quint nodded and quickly turned back to Sam and the kids, who were busy saying their good byes to some of the other European passengers. Behind him, he heard horrid-fashion-sense turn to Bond, but he tuned them out.

He was waiting for Ishya to get done speaking to a girl a couple of years older than she was when he felt a hand on his arm. It was warm and familiar, and the idea that he might just never feel it again was both surreal and frightening.

“Quint, Bond and I have a present for you,” Sam said, brown eyes warm, caring and above all motherly in a way that Quint suddenly realised he was going to miss terribly. Then her words sank in.

“A present? What sort of-”

She held up a pack of Xanax and Quint just stared for a second.

“If I wasn’t so very not into women, I’d marry you on the spot, Sam,” he blurted, suddenly feeling like a weight was lifted off his shoulders. “As it stands, I might still do just that!”

She laughed and took the remaining step forward to wind her arms around him.

She was over a head shorter than he was, yet her embrace made him feel like he was a little boy again, safe and sound in his mother’s arms, where nothing could hurt him. It felt embarrassingly good.

They stood like that for a while before the embrace loosened and Sam stepped back to hand him the package. “Take two to start with, just before you enter the plane. It should kick in after twenty minutes. If it’s not enough, you can take up to two pills more,” she said, smiling. “Be safe Quint, and keep in touch. Don’t let all those secret agent people get to you.” She thought for a moment, before a truly devilish smirk took over her face. “If you don’t answer my emails, I’m going to come and demand those answers in person. If anyone is standing between you and your keyboard, I’m going to have strong words with them. You can count on that, Quint!”

Quint stared at her, wondering for a moment if she could read minds, or if she overheard something that she hasn’t been supposed to, but she just smiled at him.

“I’m not stupid, Quint, I know there’s more going on than you boys are telling me. If I haven’t heard from you in two weeks, I’m going to assume MI6 is… Keeping you for themselves. And I can’t abide to that!”

Quint had no idea how he was supposed to respond to that. He felt grateful to her, so very grateful, and oddly reassured, but also… “You’re right,” he said softly, “You don’t know the full story… If I dis- If I don’t contact you, it’ll be no less than I deserve, Sam.” The words hurt, and he couldn’t quite meet her eyes. “Please don’t… Don’t trouble yourself, alright?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Men,” she huffed, and then, tone patient as if she was talking to a particularly dense child, “Whatever you did, Quint, to me, to us, you’re the person that saved most of the people on this tarmac. You’re the one that made sure that everyone got off safely. You’re the one that made sure we had supplies on that very first day. You’re the one that insisted we go back for the dead and give them a proper burial. You’re the one that ultimately got us off that island. Yes, we all played our part. Bond made sure everyone that was safe stayed safe, that we had names to honour the deceased, that Silva couldn’t hurt anyone more than he did and that you stayed sane. The kids made sure things got done and cheered everyone up when they felt like just giving up. I took care of the wounded. Everyone did their part, yes, but right now a lot of people owe a lot to you, and I don’t think even one of them will deny that. Whatever you did, I can’t imagine there’s that much of a debt left to pay for it, after this. Also, I’m not about to leave you in the clutches of some secret government organisation and neither will they. You can count on that.”

She looked grim by the end of that little speech, and Quint felt tears prickle in the back of his eyes. He knew that it wasn’t true. That if those agents on Silva’s list died because of him, if people got killed because they couldn’t complete their missions, that there was very little that he could do to ever pay for that, but… But it still made him feel a little better, hearing how much faith she had in him. He had no idea how he could ever thank her enough for that. How he could repay her. “Thank you,” was all he could finally choke out, and then he found himself in her arms once again, and allowed himself to sink into that hug for one last time. “Thank you so much…” he whispered into her hair, and he felt her smile.

She let him go then. “I’m not going to say ‘goodbye’ or ‘farewell’,” she said, decisively. “Just ‘see you soon’, and ‘stay safe’,” It sounded final, even though he could see tears shining in her eyes.

He nodded. “See you soon, then,” he said, smiling through the tears that were gathering in his eyes as well. “And you stay safe as well. You say that I saved a lot of people, but without you there, a lot of these people wouldn’t be here either. Also, I’m pretty sure we’d have all gone insane days ago. I know saving people’s life is all in a day’s work for you Sam, but for what it’s worth… Thank you.”

She nodded and smiled. “Go, say goodbye to your minions. I’m going to find that oaf of a boyfriend of yours and threaten him with severe bodily harm if he doesn’t stay still and let his arm heal before running off and being all heroic again!”

And just like that, they were both grinning again, and the lump that had lodged itself in his throat started to slink away. “Please see that you do,” he said, shaking his head.

She gave a nod and that was that. She turned her back and legged over to Bond like they really would see each other soon. Q found himself hoping that she was right.

“Boss!” That was his only warning before he was tackled from behind, a pair of arms suddenly attaching themselves around his neck. He couldn’t help but laugh.

“Tara!” he yelled, trying for stern, but falling hopelessly short. She let him go enough for him to turn around and properly hug her anyway.

“You’ll write, right? And let us visit when we come to England?” she asked, looking up at him in a way that said she’d already decided that he would, no matter what he had to say on the subject.

He smiled. “I’ll try, alright? That’s all I can promise. But if it all works out, I’m already looking forward to it!”

She nodded, squeezed once more and then let go. He hugged Ishya next, and then Raman. He didn’t think he’d hugged this many people in a row in… Well… Ever, actually. Hasan was last. As the two hugged, Quint couldn’t help but squeeze him a little closer. “Be strong,” he told the boy, “I know it looks like it won’t ever get easier, but I promise that it will. High school really is the hardest.”

Hasan nodded against his chest. “Thank you,” the boy said, looking like he was about to cry. “It helps, knowing that I’m not the only one. That there’s other people like me and that you’re one of them. Goodbye boss…”

Quint felt that horrid lump in his throat again. “Sam just said something incredibly wise to me, and I’m going to quote her on that,” he said, smiling a little. “I’m not going to say ‘goodbye’ or ‘farewell’, Hasan, just ‘see you soon’ and ‘stay safe’.”

Hasan nodded. “See you soon then,” he said, clearly fighting tears as much as Quint was. “And stay safe. Hope this plane ride is a lot better than the last two!”

He turned around, only to see Bond was awkwardly hugging Ishya and folded his hand a little more firmly around the package of anti-anxiety drugs. He still didn’t want to think about going on that plane, and he definitely didn’t want to think about what was waiting for him back in England, but he felt a surprising amount better about it all than he had only minutes ago.

He sighed and steeled himself. Women in the blue outfits of stewardesses were herding people out into the airport and supposedly towards the planes that would take them home. He took a deep breath and looked around for his luggage. Time to stop stalling and face the music.

~*~

Goodbyes were something that all agents got used to, but ‘getting used to’ didn’t imply that they ever got less uncomfortable. Most of the passengers had still been more than a bit wary of him, even now that he was unarmed. He’d given a few throwaway phone-numbers to some - numbers that they’d hopefully not try to call, because it would probably go straight to voice-mail and never be answered - and unused emails to others, but had given Q’s minions info that would allow them to at least reach him periodically. He wasn’t sure why he’d done that, but he thought it had something to do with the hug Ishya had given him. Perhaps he could be bothered to check a few emails, just to make sure that Q’s teenage followers weren’t getting themselves into trouble...

He felt the hand on his shoulder before he noticed her. Sam looked up at him with a smile that hinted at the sorrow hidden behind it. She held out his gun. “Here,” she said, “I’m guessing you’ll need this back.”

“Not too soon,” he reassured with a smile, accepting it and feeling at once more and less like himself as he strapped it in place. A few people gave him odd looks, but it felt like wearing armor to him, and was as natural as breathing. “So - I overheard that you don’t say goodbyes,” he flashed her another smile, turning his attention with effort away from where he could see Q now turning his attention to the flight ahead.

She nodded. “I don’t. Well, I do, just not when it comes to certain people. What I will say is ‘see you soon’ and ‘keep safe’ and in this case…” She hesitated for a moment. “And in this case I’ll add ‘keep him safe’, too.” She, too, looked at Q for a moment before turning back to Bond. “I think he’ll need it, am I wrong?”

Briefly, following her eyes, Bond considered lying to her, but dismissed the idea just as quickly. “He’ll have me,” was all he said, somewhat grimly, not looking away from the lean figure with its abominably tousled hair and still-cracked glasses.

She nodded. “Keep in touch,” she said, and then, “If either of you needs me, know you have a friend.” And then she hugged him, too. It wasn’t like the thousands of hugs Bond had had from almost as many women over his years as an agent. Those had always been shallow, serving a purpose or filling something carnal, but this was warm and comforting, as was the quick kiss 007 pressed impulsively - and maybe a bit impishly - to the tip of one ear. He could feel her smile at the gesture.

“Keep an eye on Q’s minions as long as you can, alright?” he asked as he pulled back, easily slipping a mask in place that said everything was normal, everything was alright. This wasn’t a goodbye, and Quint didn’t have possible incarceration waiting for him at the end of the next flight.

“Will do,” she promised, smiling. “Though I doubt even I could keep those four out of trouble for long. It’s apparently already been decided that I’m to meet their parents, since neither Q nor you will be able to do so. And yes, you were mentioned, mister stoic.” Her eyes twinkled. “And I’ll see you soon, one way or another, I do know that much.”

At that, 007 couldn’t help but chuckle, knowing from the determined glint in the doctor’s eye that it was no idle threat. “I’ll try and keep in touch,” he promised in return, not knowing if he’d keep that promise, but knowing that it was a little bit less empty than most vows he made. With one last nod of his head, he turned away and found Q, already knowing where he was like a magnet finding north.

“See that you do. Also, I promised that boyfriend of yours that I’d threaten severe bodily harm if you don’t rest and heal up before doing anything stupid, so consider yourself warned…”

“Hey, so long as no one tries to attack me, this is staying on!” Bond protested, wiggling his hand where it stuck out of the snug sling. That was an utter lie, because of course he’d slipped free of bandages for different reasons - but he was also quite sure that he wasn’t going to be involved in sex on this trip either, regardless of Sam throwing the term ‘boyfriend’ around. “Any tips on how to handle a drugged boffin?” he asked out of hand, glancing between Sam and Q.

She laughed. “Cuddle him?” she offered, smirking. “With anyone else, I’d say not to expect them to solve any complicated mathematical equations, but somehow I have this feeling that even drugged out of his mind, that boy could handle math more complex than either of us could dream of solving sobre… Now go, before some stewardess decides to drag you off and you make Quint jealous. Be safe, both of you.”

“I never disregard orders from smart women,” Bond bent in a little bow, the austerity ruined by his cheeky smirk, but he nonetheless turned and left, then, resisting the urge to glance back. The plane must already be getting ready to board, and they still had to find their gate. Bond drifted up to Q soundlessly.

Quint had both his luggage and Bond’s, standing between the bags and suitcases and looking forlornly at the door that led into the airport itself. When Bond was almost next to him, he looked up.

Their eyes met, Q’s filled with too many conflicting emotions to name, but a determination to meet whatever came his way chief among them. He gave Bond a small smile. Not real, but a good attempt nonetheless.

They stood in silence for a long moment, each waiting for the other to make a move, to say something, but each at loss for words. Finally, as one, they both reached out, their hands meeting between them and holding on.

Silently, they each grabbed their bags and, never letting go, walked into the bustle of the airport together.

~*~

 


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which their life is never going to be easy and Bond gets poked. Repeatedly. Viciously. Probably leaving bruises. He isn't even sure he minds that much.

_Chapter 35_

The airport was overwhelming in its chaos. There was so much noise and colour and so many people.

A stewardess by the door registered their names, gave them boarding passes, and an orderly took their bags from them. Neither Q nor Bond spoke any more than they had to, but Q found himself holding on to Bond’s hand tightly as they made their way through the airport.

It felt somewhat like a dream, walking through this world of flashing lights and people and noise that felt so alien to Q, like he somehow didn’t belong to it any longer. Like his stay on the island set him apart from them. Or maybe it wasn’t that, maybe it was the knowledge of what was waiting for him.

They found their gate without much trouble. Boarding had already started, and they got in line without a word. Handing over his boarding pass and passport without letting go of Bond or his laptop required some minor acrobatics, but he managed. He’d never been much for hand-holding, and he had a feeling Bond wasn’t, either, but the idea of letting go felt like… like letting go of a lifeline. And so he didn’t.

The woman that was checking their passes gave them a sympathetic look and said something about how she was so sorry for what had happened to them and how she hoped this trip went much, much better, but Q ignored her and Bond’s grumbled answer. Instead, he waited just long enough for her to check Bond’s papers before walking into the jetway, not caring if he was dragging Bond along.

As soon as he was out of sight of airport personnel, he palmed two of the pills Sam had given him, swallowing them dry. Only then did he look at Bond again.

He was sure the dread had to show on his face, as well as the exhaustion that was starting to take hold of him. He made an effort to smile anyway. Canny blue eyes had been on his face seemingly before he’d glanced over, no doubt having watched him take the medication, and didn’t look to be buying the smile. At least the man had the good grace not to call him on it, but instead flashed a fake smirk of his own, even adding a quick wink, before transmitting his real feelings through a strong squeeze of his hand.

They had first-class seats, right next to each other, thankfully. Q spotted several familiar faces in the seats around them, and tried to put on a brave face, to nod at them. He got sympathetic smiles and a few waves in return, and one woman seemed to want to start a conversation, but before she could, he quickly walked over to their seats.

Further compromising any attempts at conversation - or even attempts to get closer to Q - Bond shuffled him over so that Q was in the window seat. “Apologies if this makes you claustrophobic,” the man said, voice a bit grim as he flicked his eyes around in an automatic movement - checking bodies, finding exits, gauging threats - “But I’d much rather keep you where I can control the situation.” Suddenly realizing what that might sound like, Bond switched his gaze back to the man next to him, embarrassment clouding his features. “That’s not because I think you’re going to run - this is just what I do when I’m watching someone.” Still looking guilty for sounding like he’d appointed himself as Q’s jailor, Bond’s eyes narrowed in a pained expression, and he looked down at his hands while forcing himself to add, “Someone who matters to me.”

Q stared at him for a long moment. Something in the back of his mind was frantically trying to point out that they were on a bloody _plane_ and they were about to be locked _in_ and now Bond was in the way of getting _out_ and he _knew_ what happened when they crashed and crashing couldn’t end this _well_ this time around and-

He ruthlessly pushed those thoughts aside. Deal with Bond first, then have a panic attack. Preferably when the meds had kicked in. That’d be good.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself, trying to weigh the pros and cons of telling Bond to fuck off and let Q have the aisle seat when Q really, really needed that seat. But it seemed Bond also needed to have that seat, because of different reasons and what if Bond didn’t want to _help_ him if something happened, or _couldn’t_ help him because Q was stupid and couldn’t deal with a stupid window seat and wasn’t everyone supposed to want window-seats? Why did Q’s head have to be so bloody _stupid_ about _airplanes_?

A mental map started filtering across his vision, of the specific type of plane they were in, the security measures, the thousand and one ways they could be overridden, the thousand _other_ ways they could fail and he could feel his breath stick in his throat. He could feel himself going hot and sweaty and his eyes widening and-

Not yet. Not bloody yet. They weren’t even in the air! They were still on the ground and nothing was going wrong. Not yet. He was _not_ going to do that yet. He needed to answer Bond, to react or he’d think… Something. Anything. He was _not_ going to panic. He was not. He had an estimated nine minutes and 43 seconds to go until the Xanax kicked in and he was not. Going. To. Panic.

He yanked his hand back from Bond’s hold, wrapping it securely around himself and the laptop case he still held pressed to his chest. His muscles went completely tense but he tried to ignore it. Instead, he closed his eyes and started calculating the decimals of pi. He could recite them, but calculating took more mental capacity and he desperately needed _something_ to focus on. Something solid and logical and normal and _there_ that wouldn’t change and shift and betray him because it was a constant and an endless all at the same time.

It was no use. He couldn’t… The airplane schematics kept breaking through. They were going to crash. So many things could go wrong and that wasn’t even accounting for human error and they were going to crash and this time they were not going to be this lucky and it was going to go wrong and why the _fuck_ had he ever thought getting back on a plane was ever even an option? It was bloody ridiculous and he needed to get out. He needed to get out right now and he’d rent a car or take a train or take a bike or _walk_ but he was _not_ going to do that again. He was not going to allow himself to be stuck in a pressurised container at 36000 feet with no way out _again_ and then crash and this time it would be over land and there was no _way_ he would get that lucky again and they were all going to crash and he couldn’t get out. Even if they lived through the crash again and they wouldn’t but if they would he couldn’t get out because Bond was in the way but Bond was trying to protect him except he couldn’t if Q couldn’t get _away_ and he needed to get “OUT!”

He threw himself past Bond and into the aisle and he could feel Bond grabbing for his arm, but ripped himself away and went for the door, but it was closed and they were moving, _when_ had they started moving? How had he not known they’d started moving? He needed to get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get-

~*~

The stewardess had tried to get Q back to his seat, but despite still having quite a few unhealed injuries, 007 was by no means slow, and was on his feet and warding the woman off with little more than one razor-lined glare before approaching Q himself. “Q,” he said, glad the noise level wasn’t anywhere near as high yet in the plane as it had been in the chopper, “Q! If you don’t stop jumping around, you’re going to drop your laptop, and I know you care more about that thing than gold.” Hating the sling on his arm instantly, he clenched his right fist while placing the palm of the left between the sharp line of Q’s shoulder blades, just enough that the warmth of his splayed hand soaked through the already sweat-damp shirt. “Q,” he said again, like someone counting off minutes with a name.

Q flinched away violently from the touch, just stood where he was, staring at the locked door. He was pale and shaking, panting and sweating and Bond was running out of ways to deal with it.

“Sir, please take a seat?”

When Bond stared at the stewardess in question, she met it, calm despite the sharpness of the look she was getting.

“In the window seat, please, sir. I understand the need, but it would seem mister Locke is in need of some space. Now please be seated and fasten your seatbelt? We are about to take off.”

“Fine,” Bond grumbled, his own poor mood slipping through and turning his eyes to ice now that he wasn’t dealing exclusively with Q. It didn’t help that he’d also palmed the pain meds the patronizing little doctor had given him instead of actually taking them, wary of losing his edge even though the danger was supposed to be gone. “Let me try to deal with him though, yeah?” he softened his voice just enough to make it so that it wasn’t a threat.

She stared at him. “Are you his partner or a family member?” she asked, looking at Q.

“I’m the closest he’s got at the moment,” Bond conceded. His tone was continuing to even out, as he ruthlessly dragged it under control, telling himself that this was a mission - pride, emotions, and whatever the bloody hell else he was dealing with came second. He had a role to play, and right now it was being civil, controlled, and charming. All were things he could do. “An overprotective friend is my best title, I’m sorry to admit,” he finished with a smile that was utterly false but fit perfectly on his face anyway.

She took him in for a moment, her eyes seeming to size him up, then deliberately stepped aside. “It’ll have to do. Get the two of you buckled in, Mr. Bond. We’re about to take off. Does he have medication? If so, give it to him. We have a long flight ahead…”

“He’s already taken it,” Bond assured her as much as himself, having mostly given up hope of that doing any good - although he admittedly knew little about how that particular drug worked. “Quint. Q,” he said again, “You survived this just a few hours ago, love. You can do it again, just once more.” Despite the flinch from earlier, he brought his left hand up again, this time just gently brushing the backs of his fingers against Q’s arm, dropping his attention away from the watching stewardess again to circle into Q’s range of vision - considering how close Q was to the closed door, that meant pretty much resting his right shoulder against it. He decided to ask, because he had no bloody clue any way, “How long until the Xanax kicks in?” Then, for the hell of it, pressed, “Exactly. I know that bloody brain of yours must contain an internal clock, so can you tell me down to the second? Come on, Q.” By now he just felt like he was whistling into a gail, his words just so much steady droning, but he refused to go back to the seats by himself. “Come on, love.”

It took agonizing seconds as Q just stood there, panting, staring at Bond but not seeing him, not seeing him at all, just clutching his laptop and shivering all over. Finally, finally, he squeezed his eyes closed and murmured something. Then he repeated it, louder, gasping for breath between every word. “Es- estimated time is- is si- six minutes and- and nine seconds.”

“Good, good,” Bond replied back, not managing to stop the relieved smiled that flashed briefly across his face. This wasn’t over yet, but Q talking in coherent sentences was progress. “Brilliant, Q. Probably already six seconds fewer now.” He cut off the few seconds, meagre though they were, like a victory in his head. He caught the stewardess’s eye past Q’s shoulder, where she was waiting as patiently as she could with the plane getting underway, and brushed the backs of his knuckles against Q’s arm again to get his attention. “Hey, Q, there’s a rather lovely lady here who wants you - both of us, actually - to sit down.” He smiled pleasantly and calmingly as he continued to fill Q’s ears with the sound of his voice, “I imagine that she’d happily let you do whatever the hell you want, but me - she’s giving such a glare.” She wasn’t, but she overheard and smirked just faintly. “Care to try sitting again? Aisle seat’s yours. Promise.”

When Q finally met his eyes, he looked wrecked. His pupils were blown wide and he was shaking and sweating, lips forming words without a sound and it took Bond a moment to realise it was a continued litany of two words on repeat. Get out.

Bond backed up, but that was all the space he could give the hacker. He gave his head a sad shake, because one thing Q couldn’t get out of right now was the plane. “Breathe, Q,” he reminded, steadily adding, “I’ll help. Just sit.” More as a suggestion, he tilted his head that way, all the while keeping half of his attention on the stewardess, ready to react if she tried to take the situation into her own hands before Q - or Bond - was ready.

They stood for a while longer, seconds ticking by. Bond thought he could see Q’s breathing slowing down, thought the other man wasn’t shaking _quite_ as badly anymore, but it might’ve been his imagination. Finally though, finally, Q’s lips stilled and he seemed to sag a little. His breathing was definitely more slow now, even if it was still elevated. His eyes slipped closed and he swayed. Bond couldn’t help it: his good hand shot out to steady Q, but it seemed to be the right thing, because the moment he grabbed hold of Q’s shoulder, the other man seemed to fold into the touch, as if his weight was suddenly too much to bear. Relief like a cascade went through the agent, and even with one hand still in that damned sling between them, he pulled Q close until his arm could wind around both of the man’s shoulders. He felt some of the tension in him uncoil, too, as he gladly kept the hacker on his feet.

Over Q’s shoulder, he met the stewardess’s eyes again, nodding to her, indicating that he (hopefully) had this handled now. Hoping not to startle Q out of his torpor, Bond eased them slowly towards their seats, his own body leading, footsteps padding easily backwards while he kept an arm hooked around Q’s shoulder. He didn’t know when he’d started rubbing his thumb in a soothing circle between Q’s shoulder-blades, but didn’t stop until they were standing practically over their seats.

He had to bend over to deposit Q into his chair - the aisle seat, this time - because moving on his own didn’t seem to be in the realm of possibilities right now. He let go only to buckle Q into the seat and then grabbed hold of Q’s hand again as he slid into his own seat. He could do without belts for now.

It wasn’t a moment too soon, either, because within moments of their getting seated, the plane left the ground.

Glad that at least this time Q didn’t yelp or bolt out of his seat, Bond relaxed slightly, trying to pretend that he hadn’t had one hand around Q’s wrist more like a shackle than a grip. He loosened his fingers so that he could stroke them lightly up the back of Q’s knuckles, maintaining contact but forcing himself to relax. Later, maybe he’d look back on this and find it annoying ironic that dealing with Q’s panic attacks was more stressful and tiring than facing off against a warehouse full of armed gunman. The plane gained altitude and settled out, all the while Bond waiting like a tightly wound spring for Q’s phobia to be set off again. His own mental clock, however, told him that the drugs should be kicking in any minute now, if they hadn’t already.

The silence stretched between them as Bond tried to come up with something to say. Beside him, he could feel Q relaxing by degrees, until finally, his body was all but slack, head falling against the headrest. Bond was shocked out of his thoughts when suddenly, he was poked in the arm by one sharp finger. Three times in a row.

This wasn’t normal.

Turning his head, he caught the offending finger, the new, neat bandages around his palm barely getting in his way. If this was another symptom of Q’s phobia, it was definitely atypical. “Q?” he asked with low wariness.

Q giggled. Actually, honestly giggled. His head lolled to the side and he looked at Bond with bleary eyes. His pupils had shrunken to pinpricks, which might be an improvement, but might not be, considering - Bond had seen concussions do similar things. He tried and failed to poke Bond again, then looked at his finger like it’d somehow personally betrayed him. “Hey Bond,” he said, then giggled again.

It took a moment for 007 to realize that this was very probably the Xanex kicking in. “Shit,” he breathed, letting go of Q’s hand only to rub it over his face. If it meant Q went back to poking him again, it was only fair, he figured - but he needed a moment to deal with the backlash of panicked-Q to drugged-up-Q. “Hello, Q,” he belatedly replied with resigned obedience.

Q looked taken aback for a moment, then went back to giggling. He poked Bond’s arm again. “Hello, Bond!” he replied, happily. Then he thought some more, something that seemed to take exceeding amounts of effort. “You call me Q. Is funny, Q. Q Q Q Q R S!” He grinned, and somehow managed to look proud over that.

Unsure whether to snort or to groan again (or to see if anyone had a phone he could borrow to take pictures on for later reference), Bond once again caught the offending hand, this time keeping it in his grip. “Yes, wonderful, Q-R-S,” he played along with a mostly-faked grumble, “How about you _not_ give me little finger-shaped bruises? Take pity on the already-injured party.”

Quincy pouted. “But-” he tried to poke Bond again, then to pull the finger back, then glared at it. “But you’re J. Or B. Or A. And they’re all really, really far from Q. Why’re you so far away from Q? Isn’t fair…”

Still trying to figure out why he was ‘A’ (the other two letters made more immediate sense, until he realized that ‘A’ likely stood for ‘Agent’), 007 gave in to Q’s complaining tone and let go again. It was starting to feel like an incredibly ridiculous game, but it was a vast improvement on earlier. “Q?” he asked, very calmly as he angled his body to face his companion more squarely, “Do you realize that you’re drugged?”

Q took a moment to think it over, head cocking where it was still resting against the headrest, then nodded enthusiastically. “Was faster than they said! She said. What she said. ‘s good!” He fell silent again, looking past Bond. “Hey, Bond,” he said then, and seemed to be trying to keep back another giggle. He quickly gave up.

Oh, this was going to be a long trip… Although it was also promising to be quite amusing, now that Q had lost interest in poking him. “Yes?”

“The ground got white! ‘s funny, because it’s not winter and the ground got white! Like snow but clouds and white! I like snow.”

“Good to know,” the agent nodded, finally unable to hold back a smile, “I think I’m going to be partial to snow for awhile, after being on that blasted island.” He could still see signs of sunburn on Q’s paler skin, and thoughtlessly reached up to just brush a fingertip against some of the reddened skin on the rim of Q’s ear.

Q made an unidentifiable noise, then leaned into the touch, letting his head flop into Bond’s hand and going as far as to nuzzle it. “Hey, Bond,” he said, again, looking up at Bond with an earnest expression on his face, which was completely set off by the fact that he seemed to be trying to get even closer to the hand that was already pressed against his face.

Although it should have felt like a repeating record by now, it was all too easy to murmur, “Yes?” even while Bond tried and failed to tell himself to take his hand away. The shift in position had buried his fingertips into Q’s hair, and despite how dirty it still was, it felt warm and soft close to the smaller man’s scalp. “What do you need, Q?” he found himself adding to the question in a soft rumble.

“Your hand’s nice. Nice an’ big an’ strong,” Q said, his whole demeanor serious and earnest, like he was imparting some very important bit of knowledge on Bond.

Unsure how to take that - or how morally acceptable this all was with Q drugged all to hell - Bond blinked, answering mostly in a nod but also not removing his hand. He thought back to those last moments spent on the beach, before the incoming choppers had ruined them, when Q had made quite clear that he didn’t mind what Bond did with his hands. 007 struggled a bit longer with his morals before admitting that he’d never been a particularly moral creature to begin with, and then curved his hand a little closer, scratching at Q’s scalp with careful flexes of his powerful hand. “You’re awfully complimentary like this,” was what he ultimately decided to say, tone light but expression friendly and watchful.

Q giggled again at that, moving his head into the touch not unlike a cat would, begging - or demanding - more petting. After a while his eyes fell closed, but when Bond tried to pull back his hand, Q would make a discontented noise, or frown, or follow Bond’s hand with his head, and eventually Bond just allowed his hand to stay where it was. They lapsed into silence and for a while, Bond thought - hoped - that Q had fallen asleep. Then, suddenly, Q moved his head. “Hey, Bond?” he said, his voice scratchy and his eyes wide as he peeked at the other man from under the large hand in his hair, “Don’t let ‘em disappear me? I don’t wanna disappear more...”

Something cracked in Bond’s chest with the painful shock of a bone breaking, and despite Q’s almost childlike demeanor, something cold slithered up the inside of the agent’s spine. This time, when he moved his hand, it was only to flip up the armrest between them before returning to the hacker to coax him in against his shoulder. Q went willingly, burrowing into Bond’s side with a contented sigh, trusting Bond to keep him safe, keep him whole and protected and there for all the world to see. Tucking his chin over Q’s head, Bond made a noise somewhere between the contented purr of a lion - vibrating from his chest right into Q’s - and a warning growl. “No more disappearing, Q. Promise. On my life, I promise.”

Q nodded against his side, tucking himself a little closer still, before Bond felt, for the tiniest moment, lips pressing into the side of his chest, before Q relaxed and went quiet. When Bond checked, a moment later, he was asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently Q and Xanax don't mix too well. When Ginny researched anti-anxiety medication, she found out that one of the possible side-effects were dopiness. She just couldn't resist.
> 
> Just one week of posting left. A chapter and an epilogue... Or is there? The characters might've been a tad bit more demanding than we anticipated when we started posting this monster. And let's face it, who could resist the combined forces of Q and Bond demanding anything?


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which MI6 finally catches up with our errant hacker, Alec finally gets a name and Q does what needs to be done.

Q woke up to someone carding a gentle hand through his hair. He was tucked in against a warm body and covered by a blanket, and while he was stiff all over, he didn’t want to open his eyes yet. He felt warm and safe and cared for, and wasn’t that something? an annoying voice was nagging in the back of his mind, telling him that there was a whole world of trouble when he opened his eyes, and so he burrowed a little further into that comfortable warmth and made a contented noise at the hand that kept playing with his hair.

“Shhh,” the low tone wove itself into his ear, “Just keep sleeping, Q. Almost there.” Another slow stroke of a capable hand smoothed the wild tangle of Q’s hair. The ground seemed to plummet a little. Something in Quint’s stomach lurched and his eyes snapped open at the same time as he suddenly came upright, knocking his head against Bond’s hand and then again against his shoulder before he looked around with wide eyes.

Plane. Right. Plane. Fuck. Fucking fuck. Plane! Damn!

This time Bond clearly wasn’t playing around - either that or they were so close to hitting the tarmac that he didn’t have the time to play nice.  Reacting shockingly fast despite being relaxed a split-second earlier, he caught Q and pinned him in place one-armed, ignoring his struggles until there was the final jerk of the plane touching down.

Q couldn’t do anything but look up at the other man as he fought against the panic that was trying to sink its claws into his brain. He was on a plane. It had landed. Had it landed? It didn’t feel like crashing. Must be landing. Landing was a good thing, right? Why was he on a plane? Why the _fuck_ was he on a plane?

It took a while before the details of the situation started to make their way through the fog - details like his memories of the past few days, of the crash, the island, the chopper, and finally getting onto the plane and the panic and then the Xanax kicking in and then… Gods. Had he really poked Bond in the arm? And said those things? Fucking fuck. He really, really hated flying.

Quint groaned in embarrassment and refused to meet Bond’s eyes even as the calm voice-over told them that they had landed safely on Heathrow international airport according to schedule, that it was fourteen degrees Celsius outside with mild showers forecasted for the rest of the day - and it was raining in London, how surprising, a somewhat hysterical voice in the back of mind piped in - and for everyone to stay in their seats until the seatbelt signs were off.

Had he really asked Bond to not let-? And had Bond really promised-? But no. That had to be some weird Xanax-powered dream, because Bond had sounded so sincere when he’d promised Quint not to let him disappear, so sure… That just couldn’t be true. He sighed.

Time to face the music. He’d dug his grave the moment he’d decided to let the likes of Raoul Silva into the MI6 servers without supervision, dug it even deeper when he befriended and then confessed to all of his crimes to a bloody MI6 operative, and honestly? He deserved all he got for endangering all those people. He only hoped that they would let him near a computer long enough that he could start fixing it. That he could stop any automated uploads from happening. That he could keep any more agents from dying. Agents like Bond, who might work for an organisation that spied and sold information and cared too little for human live and privacy, but still didn’t deserve to be killed for what they presumably thought was doing the right thing.

He let out a breath and steeled himself as they were taxiing up the tarmac. The people around them talking in excited tones or gathering their things seemed like a distant thing as he finally looked up to meet Bond’s eyes and nodded. He straightened his spine. “I’m ready,” he said, and his tone sounded hoarse with sleep and maybe something else, but at least it also sounded calm and collected, and like he might actually be ready instead of holding on by the skin of his teeth.

The other man eyed him speculatively for a moment, perhaps to see if he was going to explode or not - perhaps with some more visceral worry hidden in the ocean of sapphire in his eyes - but finally nodded, releasing his arm from around Q’s shoulders.  By some miracle, his right arm had stayed in its sling, but the agent still looked dangerously competent as he stood up and looked down at Q.  “MI6 is likely to be waiting at the other end of the gate,” he gave out the information with surprising ease, considering that this was a supposed enemy that he was gifting information to. Those alliances had been so easy to forget back on the island, when the possibility of them surviving was probably nill at best. Now that they were back on English soil… He’d been silly to put so much trust in the man from the get-out. Now that they were home, now that this whole  mess was finished, now that he’d seen Quint breaking down and falling apart over something so stupid as getting on a bloody airplane and seen him babbling pathetically… Well, there was no way he wouldn’t realise soon just how far out of Quint’s league he really was. And then Quint would disappear and that would be that, wouldn’t it?

Quint nodded. “I won’t make a fuss. It’s fine. Let me just… I don’t know, say goodbye to those we know? I don’t want them to make a fuss, either, later…” he thought back to the things Sam had said, just before they departed, and used her words to strengthen his resolve. Even if Bond couldn’t or wouldn’t make sure he didn’t disappear… He’d be remembered. He’d have existed, for however brief a time, and left something of a mark. Helped some people, even. That would have to be enough. He wondered if they would even give him time to explain. Give Bond time to explain.  It wasn’t a helpful thought, right now, so he shoved it away.

Expression tightening as if he wanted to say something, Bond clenched his teeth briefly, then nodded.  For a man who didn’t follow orders no matter what the threat behind them, it was a remarkably subservient - or respectful - gesture.

At that point, the seatbelt sign had blinked off, and people were quickly making their way past them, but when Q got up and looked around, he quickly found the faces of those who’d spend time on the island. They looked… lost, somehow. Like they were longing to get off the plane but not sure that they should. Like they were as reluctant to face the world as he was. That was silly though.

He smiled at them, a bland smile that was as good as he could make it right now. Then he grabbed his laptop bag and stepped into the aisle. “Well then, time to go. Home sweet home,” he said, and his voice had found that careful neutrality that very few ever thought to question.

They smiled at him, and no sooner had he made his way to the door, or they all followed him, like they had been waiting for _him_. It was a ridiculous thought. They were simply waiting for someone to take the initiative and he’d been the one to do that, nothing more. It was nice though.

They made their way through the jetway, Bond at his back as always, the others right behind that, and in his mind Quint tried to figure out how he could say goodbye to them and then not leave the airport with the rest of them. He’d come up with four possible working scenarios and twenty-seven unlikely ones by the time they stepped out into the airport proper.

The first thing that caught the eye were people in suits, spread out so as not to be conspicuous, but noticeable nonetheless. They didn’t look like security, but they looked like they were watching the disembarking passengers too closely. However, none of them approached - it was a plain-dressed man with messy blonde hair, green eyes, and a build even more imposingly muscular than Bond’s who approached as if they were old friends.

In fact, perhaps they were, because the newcomer looked over Q’s shoulder and grinned broadly.  “Back already, Sterling? I was sure you’d get caught up in more trouble on the way.  How in the world did you make it back without a hitch?”

“Ha ha, Alec, very funny,” Bond deadpanned, his left hand just barely catching Q’s elbow, a hint for them to stop. A bit more quietly, so the sound just barely carried past Q and the man who was apparently Alec, 007 added, “And you can drop the use of aliases - he knows.”

The other survivors flowed past them, no doubt eager to make it to arrivals, where they’d finally be able to see their loved ones. Many of them gave both Quint and Bond a smile or a nod, one going as far as to put a hand on Quint’s shoulder as she passed. They might’ve said things, and Quint might’ve responded, but he didn’t consciously register it if they did. All he was really aware of, in those moments, was Bond’s warm hand on his elbow and Alec’s increasingly menacing presence towering over him.

Alec’s cheerful green eyes had darkened a shade, and it was truly unsettling how swiftly a smile could become something dangerous without actually seeming to move.  “Ah. Does he now?” he said, when the last of the passengers had passed them by. His attention now shifted to Q like the sites of a gun shifting targets. “And should I assume you were the one messaging my phone?”

Quint nodded, taking a deep breath and straightened his spine, willing his body to look anything but the borderline panicked dejection he felt. He would deal with whatever MI6 threw at him with his head held high, at least on the outside. What else was there, if not that?

He couldn’t quite bring himself to meet the man’s eyes though, instead staring straight ahead, which came out somewhere around the taller man’s nose.

“Alec,” James said, before the other man could say anything else. The menacing-guard-dog look switched away from Q and back over his shoulder again, where some intricate look must have been exchanged, because the other agent looked confused for a second, and he glanced between Bond and Q a few more times before crooking an eyebrow.  “Okay then,” Alec said, stuffing his hands in his pockets and rocking on his heels a moment, still looking a bit… perplexed.  The next look he gave Q was friendlier, even though it was only about 80% sincere.  “Do I finally get a name then?” he asked with a flash of humor.

Quint swallowed. “Quint Locke.” He felt like something huge and sharp had lodged itself into his windpipe, and he had to force the words past it. Bond was still behind him, and Q couldn’t see his face. He wished he could. Wished he could gauge what was going through the man’s mind, what he was thinking and feeling and expecting, but he couldn’t. Not that he’d ever been very good at that anyway. Tech was so much easier than people that way… Suddenly, the thought of dragging this out any longer, of having to stand here any longer, of not knowing what came next was unbearable. Whatever happened, it would happen and he would deal. He just hoped- He just hoped it would be quick.

He held on tightly to his laptop for a moment longer, then turned around and thrust it into Bond’s hands, the thought of anyone else handling it unbearable even now that he was fairly certain he’d never see it again. He didn’t meet Bond’s eyes, didn’t try to say anything to him, just turned back to the agent, to this Alec. Bond had trusted him, for all that was worth. He swallowed away the lump in his throat, drove the burning feeling behind his eyes back and forced his expression and voice to be perfectly neutral as he’d done many times in the past. Then he looked up and met the agent’s eyes steadily.

“Right, let’s get this over with. I assume you are here to escort me to MI6. I will go willingly, cuffs won’t be necessary, but if you feel otherwise, well… I don’t see how I have a choice in that matter anyway, so feel free. Let’s go.”

Alec’s roguish face betrayed a flash of surprise before he tucked it away, as unreadable again as code behind a firewall.  Another glance was made to Bond, but by now, other people were approaching - and from the way Alec glanced at them without tensing up, likely more MI6 types.  Before they reached the trio, though, Bond’s friend was nodding, and his hand was slipping around the elbow Bond wasn’t holding onto anymore.  “Fine by me.  I always like a good fight, but this is probably for the best.” With that, he started walking Q to some unknown part of the airport, Q moving along willingly, if stiffly. He didn’t look back. Couldn’t look back. Couldn’t risk meeting Bond’s eyes and seeing- seeing something there. Or worse, seeing nothing there at all, only indifference. That, Quint didn’t think he could bare. He sighed and steeled himself all over again, willed himself to put those memories away somewhere safe, somewhere where he could look back on them when things were too bleak. A pleasant dream, nothing more, nothing less.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is very short, and probably not what you're hoping for. I must say, after giving that the last read-though even I have wet eyes. I promise, _promise_ that Thursday's prologue will make up to it: That's almost two chapters in length.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed it anyway.


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Q is like an email waiting to be answered, there are very, _very_ few people who appreciate a good explosion as much as Boothroyd does, but James Bond fits the bill and that's not always a good thing, and so Q becomes Q without anyone's permission.
> 
> Also, did you notice the chapter count?

Quint was seriously starting to wonder what in the world he was still doing here. Granted, Q-branch was pretty interesting - and he had to suppress a snicker again at the fact that it was actually called Q-branch, and that they called their leader, an old man who was more like a mad inventor than an executive member of staff of one of the most powerful secret organisations on earth, Q. Bond had delighted in creating chaos by calling Quint ‘Q’ at every turn. But yes, Q-branch was a pretty interesting place to be. He also had to admit that what he’d seen so far of MI6 was a lot less spying on innocent people and a lot more taking down mob-bosses and dictators with frankly ridiculous weapons than Quint had anticipated.

Honestly, he hadn’t expected the secret spy-organisation to be so much like… like… Well, like a secret spy-organisation. Behind him, he heard an explosion go off, and he grinned. Looked like 006 was on a roll again.

Quint had been witness to several parts of 006’s missions, now. Not officially, of course, but the Q-branchers had a habit of putting them up on the big screen when they had live-footage because - their words - ‘it’s rare for someone to enjoy a good explosion as much as old Boothroyd, and 006 and 007 certainly belong to that group, but don’t you dare tell 007 that, or M’ll have our heads for encouraging them!’

He smirked. He’d decided to keep their confidence though, because, god help him, he actually found himself rather liking the mismatched group of mad inventors and crazy scientists and semi-evil computer geniuses. Also, Bond hardly needed more encouragement to blow stuff up, in Quint’s humble opinion.

He was well aware that at least part of the reason he was still here, was because the enigmatic M and her right hand Tanner (and shouldn’t that be T, for the sake of continuity?) had no idea what to do with him. By all rights, they should have him arrested, he knew that and they knew that, but somehow they had never quite gotten around to it. He suspected they felt quite silly, arresting him after they’d put it off for so long. It was like an email you didn’t really want to answer but had to, and it kept sitting in your inbox, staring at you accusingly, but with every passing day, it felt more silly to answer it after all and in the end, you just deleted it and pretended you never got it next time you saw that person.

Or was that just him?

He shrugged. Behind him there was another explosion. Maybe they hoped that if they left him alone long enough, either he’d do something illegal and they could arrest him with a clear conscience… Or, alternatively, that he’d get so bored that he would start fixing their frankly appalling network security for them. That was actually not such a bad plan. Very hard to arrest the man who fixed your security systems, after all.

Not even Bond was there anymore now. Quint’s first few days at MI6 had been awful, spend in a cell, not seeing anyone but the people sent to interrogate him, all but begging them to at least let him fix what he’d caused. Sure that they would kill him, that he’d never see Bond again. That the man had abandoned him as collateral damage. That that was the right course of action, for Bond’s sake. Then, more names had been posted and while that had hurt like all hell, it also meant that finally, finally he’d been taken to a room with a laptop and man in a lab-coat looking over his shoulder. It was the start of a frantic rush to not only take down the list, but trace any copies of it and destroy them. Apparently, word had gotten out, because when he got led out of the room, exhausted, but at least secure in the knowledge that he’d destroyed as much of Silva’s network as he could from a single laptop, there was a whole bunch of people standing by the observation-window, and they all looked at him with variations of awe or gratefulness on their faces. They were the first friendly faces he’d seen since the airport, and that, more than anything, made him want to break down and cry like none of his interrogators had managed.

He didn’t fight his guard as he was quickly ushered past the crowd of people and back to his cell.

Things got better from there. Someone must’ve spoken up on his behalf, because the next day, he was led to Q-branch itself and suddenly had all the processing-power and every program he needed at his disposal for the rest of the clean-up.

The day after that, Bond had turned up, and the expression of relief on the man’s face when he saw Q… Well. It was something. Apparently he had been given six weeks of forced down-time, most of the remnant of which he’d spend sneaking down to Q-branch and bothering Quint, because he was Bond and apparently bothering Quint had become a Thing for him. M had broken down and sent him on another mission eventually.

There was another explosion. 006 must really be on a roll. He could watch. It was something to do.

He turned, fully expecting to see the bulky form of Alec Trevelyan running away from a masterpiece of an explosion - and he was fairly sure that he was not supposed to know 006 was Alec Trevelyan, but that wasn’t his fault - only to come face to face with James Bond, larger than life, running towards a camera and away from what was indeed a rather spectacular explosion, and looking extremely pissed off.

Now that Quint thought about it, the cursing (while rather impressive and in Russian) didn’t quite sound like 006 after all.

“Stop gawking and get me a route out of here, damn it!” Bond suddenly yelled in English between all the cursing, in a snarled tone that made a unified flinch go through the room like a wave. Even through a screen, the man was daunting when he was mad.

Quint scouted around and quickly spotted the man tasked with ‘babysitting’ Bond, as they called it here. He was typing like a madman, switching between screens and getting exactly nothing done, as far as Quint could see.

Behind them, there was another explosion and what sounded suspiciously like bullets as well as more cursing. Bond had apparently run out of Russian - which was impressive all on its own - and switched over to what was possibly some German dialect that sounded rough on his tongue. One of the words cut off suddenly with a growl, and the sharpness of it made one think all too vividly off a bullet striking home. Bond was no longer visible on any of the cameras, making it impossible to tell if that was what had actually happened.

Before he could think about what he was doing, he had dropped his laptop by one of the banks of computers and screens that were dispersed all around the branch, plugged it in, and was hacking his way into the computer of the bloody idiot who was supposed to be Bond’s handler. No wonder Bond had said that Quint had made a better handler than those assigned by MI6, if this was their usual level.

He got in with an ease that should be terrifying, but that he could not be anything but thankful for. Without a second thought, he popped on the bluetooth headset that he used for gaming and had magically survived the whole ordeal, safely tucked away in his bag, and logged into the com-line.

“Bond,” he said, voice not for a moment betraying his anger or worry. “You are in an underground industrial complex in Ningxia province, China, am I correct?” He steadfastly ignored the commotion that broke out when whoever it was finally clued in to the fact that he’d been hacked. Quint’s fingers flew over the keyboard, pulling up GPS and schematics and building permits and altitude charts and satellite images of the area, moving on to ownership papers, cover-identities, supposedly untraceable bank-accounts…

“Q?” Bond sounded shocked for a moment, but recovered quickly - because MI6 agents either recovered quickly or they died. “Mostly. Some of it’s less underground and more open to the surface now that I blew a hole in it - but at the moment, yeah.”

Something in him had to admit that it was a rush. The best one he’d had in his life. He’d never had to hack so fast, into so many different things, half of them in Chinese, for crying out loud, for such specific information. He could see them clearly, the patterns and lines, the places he would be able to find the information he needed. It was better than hacking secret government organisations, half-expecting them on his doorstep to make him quietly disappear any second. It was better than being in the jungle, Silva advancing on him with that horrid smile, where all Q had in defence what self-defence Bond had managed to teach him - hoping, hoping that Bond would act in time. This… this was all that and more, because it was Bond out there this time, and Quint got to be the back-up. The one to swoop in and give him what he needed and what only Quint could provide him with.

He tore through the inner security of MI6’s mission database like it was tissue paper, retrieving the specifics of Bond’s mission-briefing, reading them over with lightening speed. He found several leads and went back to hacking. Contractors and plumbers and electricians stupid enough to trust in the security of cloud drives and firewalls. He had no knowledge of Chinese, but google translate provided him what he needed to make his mental picture of the modified building plans complete. They’d been sending Bond in the wrong direction, deeper into the compound, but away from the executive offices and the power generator. He was going to fry that idiot’s brain. First to make sure Bond’s brain didn’t suffer the same faith, though.

“Bond, I’m going to assume turning around is not an option?”

The sound of bullets both over the com and in the room behind him was an answer in and of itself. “I left a bit of a cave-in behind me,” Bond added, sounding only the tiniest bit guilty about that.

“I see. Take the next left, and then the first door to your right. Close it as quickly and silently as you can and wait for your pursuers to pass you by. They’ll assume you’re going for the main power generator. I’ll give them a pointer of two to confirm those suspicions. Do you copy, Bond?”

“Yes, I copy,” was the annoyed growl, but it sounded pained, “I’ve taken a bullet in the shoulder, so I’ll see how agile I am.” There was a soft chuckle, and Bond added more softly, “Not quite as easy as a fractured arm.”

“At least this time you haven’t got a cut hand to go with it. Which shoulder?” He’d taken to following Bond’s progress by using the only thing Q-branch had done right; hacking the compound’s CCTV, following his progress on the mental map he’d created of the compound.

Bond made a noise remarkably like the low whine of a dog that doesn’t want to admit that it chewed through the nice shoes. “The right shoulder?” he finally answered. Ambidextrous he was, but his right arm was still his better one.

“Well, at least we both know you can shoot with your left, too. Now hop on it and find that door. It’s not like they’ll stand back politely and wait for you to deceive them.” Q was making his way through the security systems of the MSS, the Chinese secret service, which were annoyingly much better than MI6’s. Not good enough to stand up to him, mind, but it was going to take him time, and he didn’t bloody well have that.

Bullet-hole or not, Bond was agile. The man could move like a mountain lion, fast and powerful in turn or all at once, and he made it to the door without further damage. Quickened breathing panted through the comm system, quickly sublimated as 007 turned his attention to making himself still and silent behind the closed door. Everything became so hushed that it was actually possible to hear approaching footsteps as the enemy gunman neared the door, slowing worrisomely outside of it. Without warning, Bond gave a sharp (but thankfully quiet) hiss.  Most likely, he’d been lining up his gun with the door, gunshot wound be damned.  

Quint had left the MSS for what it was for now, his hands flying over the keyboard at top speeds. The door rattled, it was about to be opened, when- An explosion, clearly audible through Bond’s comline and visible on the CCTV. Pounding footsteps as the idiots went for the bait like donkeys for a carrot. Victory.

Q went back to hacking the MSS.

“Right, that should do the trick. The hallway should be clear in…” He kept half an eye on the CCTV. “Three, two one… And it’s clear. Now please get up and go back the same way you came.”

“I want to ask what you did, but part of me doesn’t want to know the answer,” the agent quipped, but his voice had the eager tone of sounding impressed.  “Any chance you could do the same to distract Medical when I get back?”

“Only if you make the reward worth it.” Q sniped back, his voice as matter of fact as he could make it. A sharp grin took over his face as the MSS’s defences started crumbling at his fingertips. For a moment his mind flashed to how that could be taken, but then he mercilessly pulled his mind back on task. They hadn’t had sex since they had gotten back on British soil. Which, he thought sourly, meant that they hadn’t had sex at all, ever. Which was mostly his fault, but still… disappointing. At first, there had been constant surveillance around Q. The two of them hadn’t been left alone for a second. Later… It was just… Bond could do much, much better, and Q was still something of an outlaw, and…

Right. Not the time. Very much not the time. “Take the third door on your right and wait until you hear footsteps pass you by, Bond. Quietly. Do you even know what that word means?” Better to keep up the banter. That, at least, they’d never lost.

“Oh, I’ve been known to dabble in quiet on occasion,” said the man, and his light tone indicated that maybe he’d likewise decided to ignore the innuendo, until he went on in a decidedly less behaved tone of voice, “I prefer it loud, though.”  The smirk was visible all the way through the comm-link, and 007 was awfully smarmy when injured, clearly.  “Third door taken.  Waiting for footsteps.  Can I shoot someone if this waiting gets tedious?”

“No shooting unless you’d really prefer being tortured by angry Chinese people to getting out of here and sleeping it off in a nice and cozy bed. Now hush, here they come and their soundproofing is awful.”

He’d just successfully hacked the Chinese secret service. Forget ‘a rush’, this was awesome. He resisted the urge to go peeking around and instead focussed on any information they had on whatever crime syndicate Bond was chasing. Which was a lot. MI6 had done a request for information, he knew from the file, but the Chinese government was clearly not into sharing its toys.

True to his word, and despite his teasing, 007 went as silent as the grave, although he was well-trained enough to judge for himself when the coast was clear.  “Any more directions for me, Quartermaster?” he joked, voice still hushed.  

Quint raised an eyebrow at that, and he was pretty sure the din in the room around him had just gone up a notch, but they were all idiots and he was going to ignore them until he either got Bond out of someone tried to drag him away from his laptop. “Out of the room you come, and up the stairs behind the next door you go.” he said instead, smirking. That should get you to a hallway that is deserted…” There was another explosion, somewhere above Bond, “Right about now.”  

A switch in Bond’s breath was the only warning that he was moving, swiftly going from stillness to motion like a well-oiled machine.  There were no more gunshots - always comforting - and the only sound was Bond’s seemingly-relaxed drawl, “Any chance I’ll recognize where I am by the time I hit said hallway?  Not that I mind your voice in my ear, but once I’m on familiar territory instead of playing cat-and-mouse in this maze, I’ll be happier.”

“Don’t think you’ve been up there before. Which is sort of the point. Something with some idiot who caused a cave-in the way you came… People these days, can’t trust them with the simplest tasks!”

“Yes, whoever caused that cave-in,” Bond tisked, playing innocent incredibly well for a person who blew up things on a regular basis, “Can’t believe they keep him on the payroll.  Maybe it’s his good looks?”

“I’ll bet it’s more like with weeds: Whatever you do to get rid of them, they always grow back,” he said matter of factly, not even trying to fight the grin now. He had missed this, he realised, the quick back-and-forth. Bond had only been gone for a week or so, and he’d already missed this. That… might be a problem. Not as big of a problem as the picture the MSS’s files were paining though. These people, the people they’d sent Bond after, on his own, they were… Bad didn’t cover it. He’d been joking about the torture, mostly, but this… Torture would be the least of Bond’s troubles if he didn’t get out. Speaking of getting out… Q went back to speed-hacking.

It took very little time for Bond to reach his next destination, although an incoming rush of gunfire forced him to improvise.  Still, it could have been worse, and when the sounds of bullets fading, the two dead men didn’t include Bond.  “I take it back. I prefer boredom to gunfights,” grunted 007, sounding in pain again, although his quick pant was still even and strong.  “What was that you said about a warm bed waiting for me back in London?” Either 007 was less hurt than he let on and had room to think on more intimate things… or he was more hurt than he let on, and seeking a distraction.  

Q would never admit that he’d stopped breathing and - far worse - typing for the duration of the gunfight. That should’ve worked. That hallway should’ve been empty. He refused to think about Bond, injured, who knew how badly, in a gunfight. Because Q couldn’t come up with a sufficient distraction. He refused to think about Bond’s injuries period. Those were not helpful thoughts. He went back to typing with renewed fervor. “A nice warm bed… with Nancy from medical to fuss over you. Such a lovely girl…” Quint said, unable to keep the wicked glint completely from his face or his voice. “Now turn left, then the second right. Then down the stairs on your left again. Do you follow?”

“I followed right until you mentioned Nancy.  Do you know she has a wart on her nose?  Last time she ‘fussed over me’ in Medical, I was worried she’d turn me into a toad or something.  If you leave me in her tender care, I promise Q, I will end you.”

He knew that’d get a rise out of Bond… He had a theory that the largest reason Nancy was entrusted with the care of the double-oh agents so often, was simply because not even they saw much merit in trying to seduce a sixty-year old woman who saw taking care of one’s appearance as a weakness, not a strength. Also, she was ruthlessly efficient and good at her job. Quint had talked to her once, and she was actually quite nice. “Then bloody well make sure you get out of there without any more injuries, you git. After you go down the stairs, you should be back on your previous route, about two minutes from the exit at your current pace.”

“Understood.”  There was no joking this time - which, again, could be either good or bad.  Most people would consider it a miracle to have shut the trap of a snarky 00-agent, but most people also were less worried that the agent was heavily injured and possibly bleeding out even as he ran.  Still, the man seemed to be moving at an even pace, steady and smooth.

“You know, after plane crashes and deserted islands and that mess with Silva, you’d think the Chinese mob should be a piece of cake for you. A walk in the park as they say. Yet you manage to mess this up. I’d almost suspect you somehow caused the plane to crash as well,” Q said after a bit, voice thoughtful.

“I’m flattered, Q,” the agent snorted back, “that you think I could do that, but you can sleep easy knowing that at least that accident wasn’t caused by my mere presence.  MI6 figured out that it was the co-pilot.”

There were a few snickers that indicated Q-branch was, in fact, still listening. While Q had no attention to spare for them, busy locking electronic doors behind wayward goons and changing their override codes - couldn’t they have a centralised system for this sort of thing? It would make Q’s job so much easier - it was actually a bit of a relief that they would at least take over if things went wrong too much. Probably. “I know it was the co-pilot, Bond, I was the first to establish this fact, if you’ll remember?” He forcefully banned out the images in favour of keeping up his end of the banter. Bond was running down the stairs now and after that it was only two more hallways to the lobby. If only the cameras didn’t have so many blind spots… Stupid incompetent chinese mob techs. “So what did you do to the poor man that he wanted to kill you so much, huh? Did you sleep with his wife?” He flinched the moment the words left his mouth. Gods, but that was truly insensitive. Of all the times for his brain-mouth filter to fail him…

For a moment there was a stony silence, and Q cringed some more. Definitely the wrong thing to say. Fuck.  Finally, however, 007 answered in a flinty but steady tone, “Actually, Silva had killed the co-pilot’s family the year previous.  Apparently taking out an entire plane was a small price to pay to know that a murderer of Silva’s calibre would be taken out of the world.”

Quint’s fingers stilled on the keyboard and he forgot all about mobsters or getting Bond out of the building or any such thing. “Gods…” was all he managed for a long moment. Then he forced himself to pull it together and properly respond. “I am so, so sorry Bond. I- Well, I didn’t know. Bloody hell, I am so sorry. That was completely out of line.”

Fortunately, the response this time was something closer to a chuckle.  “Water under the bridge, Q.  Besides, you should know by now that usually I’m the one out of line, so it’s a rather novel experience to be on the receiving end,” James pushed aside any hurt he might have felt at Q’s words.

Q swallowed, trying to let it go as easy as all that. Part of him wanted to ask questions. Wanted to know what’d happened, why it’d happened, what MI6 had told the passengers, the family of the co-pilot… Another part of him wanted to run away and go into hiding. He still had a very cosy little jail cell here at MI6, even if he’d mostly been sleeping in one of the tiny bedrooms MI6 kept for personnel on standby or when someone needed a quick nap between missions. Bond had shown them to him. They were in a wing that was apparently only ever used by agents between missions (not that Q knew this at the time), but after one altercation one early morning where Q had unknowingly ripped a double-oh agent a new one when the man had all but assaulted him before he’d had a chance to have a cup of tea, no one had questioned his presence there. Q himself only really remembered the barest basics of what had happened, but apparently there was camera-footage…

He forced himself back on task.

“Back-up will be there in five minutes to pick you up, Bond, if they’re as good as advertised. They should have a medic with them.” Quin’t voice was soft when he said that, a far cry from his usual no-nonsense attitude. He kept in any further comforting words by force of  will.

“Now that sounds lovel-” 007 just started to say, actually sounding more relieved than impish, but then his voice cut off and there was just a hail of sound, as if two large dogs had been tossed together into a pit.  There was a snarl from Bond that barely even sounded human, a frustrated noise edged with fury like rust on the edge of a blade, but there was another voice evident - not speaking English, and definitely not Bond, and clearly so close to 007’s head that it was transmitting through his earpiece.  A gunshot went off, so clouded by the sound of two bodies rolling on the floor that it sounded almost muffled.  No one cried out, either because the shot had missed, or whomever had taken the bullet was too bloody stoic to cry out.  Something crashed loudly as the two hit it, breaking who-knew-what, and Bond was cursing in yet another language, only this time his opponent answered back in kind.  

Suddenly there was an electric crackle, and Bond was roaring, a sound easily recognizable as one of pain - he bit it back quickly, but it took a lot to make someone like Bond yell like that.  The sound soon transformed into a low snarl, though, and Bond switched back to English to growl in a voice that sounded as if it had been dragged over the teeth of hell, low and full of venom and bloody promises, “You’re going to regret that.  But you won’t regret it for long.”  

Briefly, the sounds of a violent skirmish continued, but within minutes, there was another gunshot, then silence.  

Silence except for swift panting coming slowly under control.

In London, all of Q branch seemed to have stopped. There was no sound. There wasn’t even CCTV, just images of an empty entrance hall where, just a meter outside of the range of the camera, Q knew Bond to be. Q didn’t think the image could’ve been more haunting if Bond had been in it.

“Bond?” he asked, trying desperately to keep the frantic edge out of his voice, but probably failing, and when no answer was forthcoming, “Bond, report!”

“I swear to God, if that noise I hear coming for me is another overeager villain, I’m going to bring this whole building down,” 007’s voice grated threateningly, still rough around the edges from the adrenalin no doubt ripping apart his system like sharply clawed hands.

Quint went through all his feeds at lightening speed. There was no one in the vicinity. Not even the bloody evac crew. Which should be getting there. All the left-over grunts were congregating around the blast-door to the main power generator, which he’d programmed to not accept any of the override codes while the computer inside was playing a mission-recording of 006 trying to hack into a computer that had had him in stitches the week before.

He fell silent for a moment, trying to figure out a way to tell Bond that- “Bond?” he started, carefully, “Bond… There’s no one in your direct vicinity. What do you hear?”

The answer was a frustrated snarl, still full of all the heat from a bad fight.  “Bloody ringing in my ears.  Where do I go now?” was the short reply.  His tone was breathy, though, and the agent just slipped into sight of one of the camera’s as he moved - enough to show bloodied blond hair and a shoulder that looked no better.  Honestly, the man could have been painted in red.

“Bond-” Quint choked. Actually choked. He knew Bond had the attitude of an absolute bullheaded ass about dealing with injuries, but this… “Bond, you absolute bullheaded ass, stay where you are. There are MI6 people on their way. If they don’t hurry up, I will make their life a living hell and their credit ratings even worse, I promise, but stay bloody still! They’ll come to you!” Alright, so that might’ve been more eloquent, but he could be forgiven under the circumstances, right?

Worrisomely, 007 neither acknowledged the command nor followed it, although at least as he took a staggering step forward, it brought him fully into view, if only to lean heavily against a nearby wall.  “Bloody fuck,” he could finally be heard saying, lifting the hand not holding his gun - he’d be holding that gun even if he were dead - to touch his head, pulling his fingertips away immediately with another curse.  He looked wrecked: blood everywhere, along with dirt and grit, and his shirt had been torn open, but Q couldn’t see the damage.

“Right. Stay there and stay still, you blundering idiot!” So he was sounding a bit frantic. Who could blame him? “If you end up dying out there, I’ll-” Choking up. Real classy, Q. Real classy indeed. “I’ll make sure they’ll put a bloody sandcastle over your grave instead of a headstone!”

There was a frozen moment of silence, followed by rasping laughter.  Back braced against the wall and head tipped down - face hidden by drops of blood vividly falling from his nose and chin - the 00-agent’s shoulders shook for a moment with amusement.  “I can’t believe you can remember that right now.”  He sucked in a sharp breath as his laughter pulled on his shot shoulder, but his inhale also caught sharply on the way out. Q flinched.

“I’ll do it too!” he threatened. He wondered what the people around him were thinking about his sanity. He found he didn’t much care as long as they didn’t interfere. “So you’d better stay awake and stay alive, you hear me?”

Bond slid down the wall to sit on the floor, leaving an incarnadined path behind him that was in no way healthy.  “I figure that I’m already scheduled to see that unholy nurse in Medical again,” the grumbled, “But I’ll see what I can do about ‘awake and alive’.” Softly - a velvet rasp under his breath - Bond started humming a small tune. Quint couldn’t quite place it, but he thought he’d heard it before.

“Bond, stay with me,” he said again, trying not to panic. Stay with me and tell me-” he swallowed. “I won’t ask you again about sandcastles, shall I? Anything else you’d like to traumatize me for life over?”

“This song stuck in my head,” the man replied relatively quickly, “Would you believe that one of your minions kept singing a song - off-key, I might add - called ‘Awake and Alive’ while I was trying to teach self-defense?  Bloody stuck in my head now.  The one line I know, anyway.”  He reached up a hand to feel at his head-wound again, and finally lifting his head enough so that he could glare at his bloody fingertips.  “Bugger,” he growled tiredly.

Quint stilled, wondering what he should do. What he should say. He checked the ETA of the evac crew again. They were late. Really bloody late. If he didn’t know, now, that Silva had been the one to sell him out to MI6, he would’ve wondered how the hell they’d found him. Their level of competence was appalling sometimes.

“Bond, do you want Sam to kill us both?” he asked, floundering and falling back on the old threats they’d had between them, back on the island when Bond wasn’t dying and Quint wasn’t standing by, hands tied and relegated to frantically pressing F5 on the ETA of a bloody evac team full of supposed professionals.

Sam’s name and the thread of her imminent anger got Bond to twitch, muscles flexing subtly through his frame. Good to know that threat would probably work for the rest of eternity. He just hoped eternity would be longer than the next few minutes. Hoped that he could tell Sam about this and they’d laugh. Hoped that he could really sick Sam on Bond some time, because god knew Bond would need it. Just hoped- “Oh, I think that if Sam were here, I’d already be on her kill-list,” the man joked weakly, and he must have known he was within view of a camera, he must have trusted that Q had hacked it, because he flashed a jaded half-smile and indicated his injuries.  “Besides, why would she kill you? I’ve been told from multiple sources that, of the two of us, you’re the adorable one.” Bond let his head rock back against the wall, a picture of patient fatigue that was in sharp contrast to the mass of lethal adrenalin he’d been earlier.

“She’ll kill me because she wasn’t the one that got to kill you,” Q said, quietly. “She’ll kill me because she worked hard to save you and now I-” he had to take a moment, had to take a breath, “And now I didn’t work hard enough and it might all be for nothing…” He whispered that last bit, half-hoping that Bond wouldn’t hear it. Wouldn’t have to deal with it. The man might be dying, was heavily injured at the very least, and now Quint was… was… What, exactly? Going on a guilt trip? Mourning Bond before the man was even dead? He wasn’t that stupid, was he? Was he?

“Q, when I get back, I’m taking you to the ocean,” the agent grumbled suddenly, his almost grouchy tone mixing with the utter nonsense of his words, right as he finished, “So I can throw you into it. Nothing short of that seems to work to get you to stop being such a martyr. I’m not dead yet, all right?” As if to prove it, he growled painfully and shoved against the wall to stand.

“Stay put, you bloody idiot!” Quint said, mind flashing back to the evening Bond had thrown him into the bloody ocean to ‘comfort’ him, back then they’d hardly known each other. Back when Bond had still been halfway convinced that Quint needed to be killed. Back when Quint had been so exhausted and scared and rattled that he wouldn’t have fought it if Bond had decided differently. “You have some very, very strange ideas about comforting people, Bond!” he said, some levity back in his voice. “The evac should be there very shortly now. Just hold a little longer alright?” He fell silent for a little longer, and then, feeling utterly pathetic but not willing to not say it, added; “I need you to come back here. Please?”

There was no answer, but James’s head jerked suddenly in the direction of the doorway, his whole frame tensing even as he hissed in a breath - pain from moving his head so fast, no doubt.  His body language didn’t give away whether he was looking at another enemy or the Evac team, at long last.  However, he asked in a low, roughened voice, “Will you be waiting for me, Q?”

Quint swallowed. He was about to say something - anything, he didn’t know what - when voices speaking English sounded, clear even through Bond’s earpiece. Q sagged, and he had a notion of everyone in Q-branch sagging along with him. He quickly checked to confirm his conclusion and only then allow the smile that wanted to take over his face. “That’s evac. Get home safe. I’ll be waiting… James”

It was only after the team had loaded Bond into an unmarked van and Bond had been allowed to finally give in and go to sleep that Quint realised this might just be the first time he’d called him James.

~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a long, long time, this would've been it. From the very first draft of the plot, I'd meant to end this here. Truth is incredibly persuasive though, and Q and James are even worse, so now it doesn't. I think what we've written and are still finishing will probably account for about 3 more chapters. Also, come next week, the rating will go up... Be warned! (Or, you know, excited. I'm going to go with excited, here!)
> 
> Regardless, I still decided to give you a chapter that is almost double the usual length, because I suppose it was meant to be written in one go. Don't ask me, it'd seem I'm just one of the two typing machines through which this story forced its way out.
> 
> I really hope you enjoyed that, and that you don't mind the last minute change in chapter numbers, and all the rest of it. Please let us know what you think, because we had a hell of a lot of fun writing this chapter and would love to know how it comes over for you guys!
> 
> I also guess this means we'll see each other again on Monday!


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tanner is a bit of a matchmaker, Q tries to say nice things but insults Bond's computer instead, and Bond takes it all quite well (by that, I mean he's a bit busted up but very, very happy to be back in the company of his favorite boffin).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lateness - the Great and Powerful Ginnyvos has been tackled by a cold, so you guys are stuck with me! And my posting skills are definitely not on par with hers... XP But look - a chapter!!

It was the first time in six weeks that Q was able to look up and see the sky. It was unusually nice even, by London’s skewed standards. A bit of watery sunshine peeked through every once in a while. Q hadn’t noticed this.

His eyes were trained on the medical transport plane that was taxiing up the runway. He still had no idea how it’d gotten to this point, just that Tanner had walked into Q-branch at some point during his moment of debatable glory getting Bond out of the compound. Had stood right behind Q in fact, when he’d finally dared to take off the headphones, detach his laptop and turn to face whatever judgement MI6 wanted to rain down on him for all the very illegal things he’d just been doing. And then he’d offered Q a job.

It was so absurd, Q hadn’t even managed to form a reply, no less the snarky one he would’ve liked to imagine he’d give, in such a situation. He’d just stared at the man, relief over Bond’s safety and continued status as alive battling with left-over fear of whatever punishment he’d be facing now that he’d finally given MI6 more than enough cause to arrest him properly, and the words hadn’t even registered at first.

They still weren’t quite registering even now, after Tanner had manouvered him to an empty office, pressed a steaming cup of Earl Grey in his hands and told him, in no uncertain terms, that he was too dangerous to leave running about without supervision, but that MI6 could certainly use someone of his skillset - _‘Only on a probationary basis, mind, and even if you can claim reasonable deniability of any knowledge of the rules in place for this sort of thing now, that wouldn’t fly in the future, Q, because I will personally get you a hard-copy of the rule-book and I want you to follow it from now on, no matter how much of a bother you lot tend to find them… Honestly, you’re worse than the double-ohs, sometimes. But yes, MI6 could certainly use someone with your level of skill and a calm mind in a crisis situation. I’ve been told by a reliable source that our network security is ‘positively appalling’ and ‘a small child with an ipad could get in… Honestly!’. I suppose that means we’re in need of an expert. Are you up to the task?’_ Q smiled again, thinking of Tanner echoing his own official statements on hacking MI6 back to him in an overly posh voice. He found he rather liked the man.

He’d asked for more time, and, to his surprise, had been given it without much of a fight. Tanner had simply told him that agent 054 would be tasked with getting Bond from wherever Q had arranged for the medical transport to bring him, and he should know better than anyone when the agent would arrive there, so he was free to coordinate with the agent in question as long as he made sure Bond got back to MI6 medical within a reasonable time-frame. He’d then given Q an enigmatic smile and walked off.

It had actually taken Q over half an hour and a confused conversation with some Q-branchers over the fact that agent 054 was on medical leave for Q to realise that Tanner wanted Q to pick Bond up in person. He was unaccountably grateful. Sleep, that night, had not come easy though.

And now here he was, three days later, at a small private airport, staring at yet another plane and waiting for the man that was his- his- his what, exactly? - to appear.

When 007 did appear, he looked far better than when Q had last seen him - which wasn’t hard to do, since the man had been covered in blood and grit at the time. Now, he was dressed in a button-down and slacks, moving as if everything were normal, unless someone knew him well enough to see the slight restriction of motion in his right arm or the hint of stitches moving from his right temple and up into his hairline. The agent’s blue eyes were like chips of glass in the sporadic bits of sunshine, and they snapped to Q as if he’d known he was there all along - or as if he’d been hoping he’d be.

He was by Q within minutes, face cautiously closed off, but still revealing careful curiosity. “Q. Or should I say Quartermaster?” he asked with politeness that just edged teasingly into warm familiarity. The agent wasn’t sure entirely how to deal with Q, after all that had happened, and was moving with the dexterous carefulness of a well-trained spy - testing his ground, but never losing focus on what he wanted beneath all that.

Q felt like something in his chest both tightened up and loosened at the same time. Bond was here. He was walking on his own steam. He was mostly alright. “Not yet, in any case” he said, putting some effort in _not_ running over and winding his arms around Bond then and there. “Though rumour has it, there may have been a job-offer.” He ducked his head, suddenly shy.

The broad smile was audible in 007’s tone as it warmed. “I’d say that congratulations are in order then! I’m in need of a stiff drink anyway…” He looked around with the restless, pondering look of an off-duty agent who still had a bit of adrenalin left over, pricking beneath his skin. Then he glanced back at Q, arching an eyebrow as he realized something. “Not to complain, but this isn’t my usual welcoming committee, and I’m a paranoid man. Why are you here, exactly?” He shoved his hands into his pockets, and again the motions caught a bit, revealing the wounds he was hiding.

Q let out a relieved laugh. “I think-” Did he really have the guts to say that? “-that Tanner is a bit of a secret matchmaker.” Apparently he did. He congratulated himself. “It turns out the agent I was supposed to coordinate your safe return with is actually on medical leave, and apparently there was no other agent to spare, so you’re stuck with me.”

The smile had definitely become a grin. 007 shifted his posture slightly, and with nothing more than a change in his footing and twitch of his shoulders, the entire weight of his attention was clearly on Q, as if he were singling him out from the entire world. “Well, I’ve misjudged Tanner, clearly. I always thought he was boring and stuffy, but clearly he has some good ideas.”

Q smiled up at the man, trying to figure out what to do now. He had an MI6 car and as far as he’d been able to discern, he was supposed to get Bond back to Medical as soon as possible, but… The truth was, going to Medical, or to MI6 in general, meant a lack of privacy that Q was learning far exceeded any Big Brother the general public might face. It was a little ridiculous, and definitely far too childish for a man well into his thirties, but Q was reluctant to share Bond with anyone so soon after, well, everything. But Tanner had told him to get Bond to Medical within a reasonable time-frame, and he hadn’t even signed a contract, was only outside and without surveillance for the first time as a matter of fact. Was he really willing to risk his job on something so ridiculous as Quint’s childish feelings for a man who most likely didn’t feel more than friendship for him anyway? “Would you like to go somewhere quiet for some dinner?” Apparently so.

“I could do that,” Bond hummed appreciatively at the idea, “Although I’d prefer takeout. I may look myself again, but I’m actually a bit of a patch-job.” 007’s hands went up, touching his shoulder with a wince. He also briefly touched his sternum, yet another wound that Q didn’t know a thing about. “After sitting on a plane this long, I can’t promise how long I can act proper and behaved in public,” Bond grimaced and finished with a truthfulness that few would have expected from him as he now gestured at his face, “This mask is wearing a bit thin.”

Quint took a deep breath and tried to hide his disappointment, even though he was well aware _something_ must’ve shown on his face. It seemed like they were going to be facing the prying eyes of MI6 after all. Well, if that made Bond more comfortable, he could deal with that. He could deal with a lot of things, it’d seem. “Right,” he said, “The car is just off the runway. I’m afraid you’ll have to walk there. Apparently driving it up the runway itself made for a few ‘safety concerns’.”

It sounded suspiciously like Bond muttered, “Fuck safety concerns,” but he turned smoothly towards the car - finding the direction unerringly, probably because he was familiar with the area. “May I drive?” he asked, all smoothness and charm which somehow looked natural in this instance - either because he was putting more effort into the lie or because he was, for once, actually being a gentleman. “I know a few places.”

Q nodded. Well, at least it didn’t sound like take-out was just an excuse to get back to MI6 and away from Quint… “That sounds fine. Here,” He held out the keys to Bond, trying to figure out what, exactly, Bond’s angle was. “It’s the black SUV that has I-am-a-covert-government-vehicle-please-don’t-notice-me-this-is-not-the-car-you’re-looking-for written all over it in great big neon signs.”

~*~

Driving was a bit uncomfortable with a healing shoulder, but this was hardly the first time he’d done so. Bond maneuvered the vehicle easily, revelling in the simple freedom of driving without the clock ticking down in his head or orders directing his movements. Besides that, the company was lovelier than he’d ever expected.

Not wanting to share Q any more than he had to - not after Tanner had so artfully given them this time together, for whatever reasons - Bond had called ahead to a Thai place he knew. It was a little hole-in-the-wall place known only to few, but the owners had a soft spot for James that he’d always been careful not to abuse, and now all it took was a small bit of sweet-talking to get an order prepared on short-notice. In fact, a small, dark-haired little girl even ran their food out to the car, grinning happily up at Q as she came up to his side of the car with her little arms fully loaded with food in a large, brown paper bag.

“Apsara,” Bond greeted her with a congenial smile, looking amused with the way she was staring with honest, friendly fascination at his companion and now trying to lift the food through his window. “Give her a hand, would you, Q?” The agent was clearly trying not to chuckle, and also on the verge of slipping out of the car himself as the tiny girl maneuvered her heavy load.

Q looked down at her for a moment, looking a great deal like a deer caught in headlights. Then he managed a smile and opened the car-door. “There, that should help,” he said, sounding almost shy, “Go ahead and hand them to me.” The moment she moved to do just that though, a thought must’ve occurred to him, because he ducked down to fumble with his bag, leaving the girl holding out the bags and sending him a sceptical look before meeting Bond’s eyes questioningly. Bond just shrugged at her, happy to watch and see what Q would do.

A moment later, he came up, hair even more tousled than it had been before, holding up his wallet like it was some small victory. “There! Now I can at least pay you!” He then looked at the girl, a little confused, before perking up and finally taking the bags. “Sorry, sorry, how much is that?”

She grinned shyly again, and told him in enchantingly accented English. Bond was tempted to argue that he would pay, but he’d only just reentered the country, and was fairly sure that he didn’t even have the right currency on him at the moment (although MI6 would have doubtlessly left him some in the car, especially with Tanner so deftly pulling strings of late).

Q fumbled with the bags, hands full, before he finally managed to set down all the food on his knees and pay the girl… Including a very generous tip, Bond noted.

After Apsara had darted inside again, Bond swiftly got them moving again, relaxing with the familiar smell of Thai food that made his aches and pains worth it. “I was going to ask ‘my place or yours,’ but I don’t actually know if you even have a place in London,” 007 made conversation, simply happy to have Q in the car. He hadn’t realized until more recently, but while trapped on the island, he’d gotten used to having… well… access to the hacker at all times. If he wanted to talk to him, be close to him, tease at that wickedly quick mind of his, all Bond had to do was walk up to him. Then they’d returned to London and it had gotten complicated, with missions and regulations and rules and distance. While these morose thoughts faded slowly in his mind, Bond kept talking lightly, “I’d prefer my place anyway, though. Hot off a mission, I have a soft spot for familiar things.” Like Q. He suddenly wondered if he could be somewhere else entirely and still feel at home with Q for company. It was a warm thought that chased away the lingering frost that missions always left behind.

He glanced over when Q suddenly sat bolt upright. “...Your place?” he asked, blinking at Bond from behind his glasses, brilliant mind seeming to work overtime.

Raising an eyebrow and shooting Q a questioning look, the agent replied slowly, “That’s what I said, yes. Unless you have objections.”

Q quickly shook his head, then looked down, gathering his composure and his thoughts. How odd was it, that Bond could look at him now, and all these little gestures seemed familiar and calming, easy to interpret? Taking comfort in the fact that he read no outright unease about being taken home by an MI6 agent - if anything, Bond was reading hints of hopefulness beneath the unexpected surprise - Bond nodded, “My flat it is, then.”

~*~

As usual, Bond’s flat was an odd mix of empty and comforting to him. He wasn’t there often, but when he was, it was usually after missions that left him rather strung-out and tired, wanting to crash without threats all around him. He actually twitched a bit, hearing Q walk in behind him, and stubbornly refused to think about the fact that he never brought anyone else here, except on one or two occasions, Alec. “You can put the food on the table,” Bond nodded to the kitchen, which was separated from the expansive, sparse living room by a half-wall only. Bond himself wandered to the couch, dropping down onto his haunches with a little grunt and pulling out the first-aid kit always hidden under it. Painkillers sounded more heavenly by the second, and he tapped out three onto his hand before standing again with a wince.

Q did as he’d been told, all the while looking around the room with the intent, curious expression that told Bond he wasn’t just committing everything to mind, but trying to glean anything he could. It was a look mostly reserved for computers and interesting gadgets, Bond had learned.

“See anything you like?” the agent grinned, as he made the painkillers disappear like magic and wove towards Q like a magnet to true north.

“I see that you are in desperate need of a new computer system,” Q said, glaring daggers at Bond’s laptop for a second before turning back to Bond and looking a bit embarrassed. “Not that you should, you know, do that just because I say so, even though your system is hopelessly outdated, but-” His eyes swept around the room, trying to look for a way out of the pit he seemed intent on digging himself into.

Fortunately, Bond didn’t make a habit of being offended on his technology’s behalf, and was far more interested in watching Q’s rather adorable discomfort at the moment. He’d listened to the rant with a steadily growing grin, unrepentantly letting his eyes wander over the hacker while otherwise pretending to pay attention. The agent was well on his way to misbehaving (and possibly forgetting dinner altogether) when he unthinkingly went to cross his arms, a movement that sent at least four separate bolts of pain through him in memory of his last mission. He jerked in a wince.

He must have made a sound, because Q turned around and this time really focussed all his attention on Bond, obviously trying to take in the extent of his injuries. “You’re still hurt,” he said, managing to sound disapproving, worried, and ashamed at the same time. Bond thought he prefered Sam’s brand of care, which had always been rough enough to make him regret injuring himself, but had never made him squirm quite like this. “You should sit, let me take care of all that. I should have taken you to Medical like Tanner said! I-”

“Slow down, Q,” Bond cut him off, barely resisting the urge to catch hold of him. “A wince doesn’t mean I’m dying.”

“You got _shot_.” Q said, “And electrocuted. And shot at again. And your head got bashed in. You should be in Medical and I’m an utter fool, letting you get out of that.” He actually looked ashamed at that. “How bad is it?”

Feeling uncomfortably like a misbehaving child caught out by a parent, Bond heaved out a breath and looked around him briefly for inspiration - before realizing that lying was a pretty pathetic reflex at this point. Even if he hadn’t explicitly told Q yet about more than the gunshot wound to the shoulder (a through-and-through, thankfully, although it had looked bloody awful), the smaller man apparently had the means to find the reports that explained everything else: Bond had fought, removed his opponent’s gun, but had also gotten himself slammed into an electrical panel hard enough to open his head up a little. His opponent had then had the audacity and creativity to yank out some of the wires that had been revealed when they’d knocked the panel off - so while James had gotten away without being shot again, he’d suffered electrical burns before recovering his own gun and ending the whole fiasco.

Giving in to the inevitable, Bond snapped his mouth shut on any excuses and instead turned to his shirt. The buttons gave way easily beneath deft pulls of his fingers, and he studiously watched his own work as he slowly stripped down to the waist. Bandages were revealed over his right shoulder, glaringly white against his tanned skin. The electrical burns were taped over - two jagged lines scraped crookedly across his chest, the angry red of healing skin hidden by the bandaging that was going to drive him nuts before long.

Q looked at him and for a moment, his eyes taking on a far-away quality, like he was remembering something. Then, he slowly stepped closer and reached out to touch the bandages, fingers stopping only millimeters from Bond’s chest. He took a fortifying breath and when he spoke, his voice was small and unhappy. “Sometimes I miss Sam terribly,” he said, softly. “Isn’t that strange? I’ve only known her for four days, and yet… At least she always knows what to do.”

Reaching up, 007 caught Q’s fingers, his grip light and almost hesitant for a man trained to dislocate and snap bones - or maybe that was exactly _why_ he was hesitant. Beneath his grip, he explored the elegant bone-structure of the other man’s hand while gathering his words. “Technically, she didn’t know what to do any more than the rest of us. She just had a way of making it look like she did, and breaking down only when no one would suffer for it.” Pale blue eyes glanced up, tracing Q’s face as carefully as his calloused hands were doing Q’s knuckles. “Not unlike someone else I know.” He pulled Q’s hand away from the bandages, higher so he could press his lips to just one fingertip, eyes never moving.

Q tensed up and his eyes went wide, but the breath he released a moment later told Bond that it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. “I don’t know-” another breath as James dared a lick, “Don’t know what you’re talking about…”

“Weren’t you the one who held it together until I found you on the beach?” Bond asked, carefully avoiding a more blunt description: ‘ _Weren’t you the one who held it together until the dead had been taken off the plane_?’ To keep Q’s focus from sliding inevitably there, he gripped Q’s hand a little bit more firmly, still maintaining steady eye-contact as he nuzzled into the fluttering pulse of the wrist he’d captured. “I could list other examples. I hardly think that Sam has the monopoly of putting on a good game-face when needed.” Right now it wasn’t Q’s ‘game-face’ that 007 wanted, though: he wanted that glimpse of Q unguarded, a look he thought he could just see through the cracks every time 007 released a breath against his inner arm now.

“I…” Q looked down, seemingly unsure of what to say, of how to meet Bond’s eyes. “It’s not the same,” he finally said, sounding plaintive. There was a moment of silence before the younger man took a deep breath. “I’m not the same…” he said, softer. “It was only four days, five at a stretch. Not even a week. But it seems like everything’s changed since the island. And the people… I find myself missing Sam and the minions and, well, you, more than I do anyone from before. How does that even work?”

Some of the heat that had been rising up like licks of fire behind Bond’s eyes faded, but didn’t die out. In fact, his expression was still warm even as it softened, and he shifted, pulling Q in closer. “You don’t have to miss me, Q,” he murmured, curling his hands around the smaller man’s back, “I’m right here, and if my track-record means anything, I’ll be here for a bloody long time yet.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not, we're not finished yet - in fact, we're just getting warmed up ;3 We've been dreadful teases this whole time, I know, so isn't it about time for some sexiness...?
> 
> Both Ginnyvos and I believe that sex is hardly a fix-all in a story, nor is it desperately needed to prove that things are all good and finish. That being said, I can say that I'm having immeasurable fun writing out the next few chapter with Ginnyvos and simply making up for the utter lack of sexy-times between poor Q and Bond.


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Q has spent those six weeks at MI6 doing some... interesting research, Bond wonders if he will be able to get through a mission with Q on the coms without getting really uncomfortable and they actually manage to talk some in between all the sexy stuff happening.
> 
> Not work safe by a long shot, ladies and gents!

Q frowned at him for a second, as if trying to make sense of that, maybe switch tracks. Then he smiled a little. “From what I hear in Q-branch, it is entirely because of your bull-headed refusal to die that the crash didn’t kill us. Something to do with multiple resurrections?” The smile seemed to be doing its best to transform into a little smirk.

Pulling the other man close into a hug that should have hurt some of his injuries but somehow didn’t (painkillers and stubbornness were both wonderful things when it came to 00-agents), 007 nuzzled the dark hair and chuckled, “You should hear M talk about the paperwork. Apparently being dead is remarkably complicated.” He pretended to ponder, then added thoughtfully, “Or maybe it’s just the part about my not staying dead?”

“I can’t imagine,” and yes, that was definitely a sardonic little smirk right there. “Every time I’ve erased my identity in the past, I’ve had the common courtesy to not only do all the work myself, but actually stay dead and just start living as somebody else. Far less hassle, I’d imagine.”

“Hmm,” Bond murmured as if he appreciated the elegance of the idea, while one hand tightened a bit around one of Q’s shoulder-blades. The other hand stroked down his back, coming to rest in warm patch of heat just above the hem of his trousers.

“They should just decide on a deadline when it comes to Alec and you: No reporting you dead until you’ve been dead for at least a year. It’d be like the incubation-time for zombification.” Q was leaning into Bond’s touch ever so subtly. The hand that had been in Bond’s moments ago was now resting against Bond’s chest. The other was just hanging by his side, twitching once in a while as if Q _wanted_ to do something with it, but honestly didn’t know what.

“If you look deeper into the protocol files, you’ll realize that there is a waiting period,” Bond chuckled, rocking his weight a bit as if getting used to the hand on his chest. There were wounds there...but instead of pulling away, 007 relaxed, head rocking down towards Q’s shoulder as if the sensation were grounding him. “Although I don’t know about zombies. I’d prefer to think of myself as more of a phoenix,” he joked in a perfectly truthful-sounding voice, then simply turned his head to bury his nose against Q’s hair.

“Isn’t Alec the one with the thing for fire?” Q asked, pulling up an eyebrow. “Resurrection is for zombies.” He laughed, jostling James a little more and actually bringing about a flinch. Q’s eyes widened and he stared down at his hand on Bond’s chest - his injuries - guiltily.

Pulling back to see what had captured Q’s attention and stopped the flow of words, 007 looked confused for a second until he looked down. “Ah,” he recognized the problem, a wry half-smirk crookedly spreading across his face, “That’s where we started this conversation, wasn’t it? On the fact that I always come back to you broken?” Still looking down at the slender fingers spread over his bandaged chest, 007 cocked his head, made an unreadable noise in his throat, and then eased forward again. It pushed Q’s palm harder against the hidden wounds, and for a moment, 007’s eyes fluttered shut.

When they opened again, he found Q looking at him closely, gaze part confusion, part sharp analytic interest. “Bond…?” he asked, and even his voice had lost some of its softness, its insecurity, moved closer to the voice he’d used on the comms, demanding an explanation.

Lifting his head a bit and allowing the lopsided smile to stretch ruefully, Bond explained with an honestly he rarely got the pleasure of using, “I’m technically still fresh off a mission, Q. I’ve got more endorphins and adrenaline in my system than I’d care to contemplate. This-” He nodded down to his chest, where the pressure of Q’s hand had to be hurting him. “This I barely feel. Actually…” His eyes got a bit sad - the smile didn’t fade, but the light behind it threatened to go out. In a lower voice, he still made himself finish, “Actually, I barely feel much of anything at all right now. So pardon me for sounding rather fucked up, but a little pain isn’t going to hurt me.”

Q’s gaze got even sharper as he seemed to work through that statement, examining it from all angles. “You… enjoy the pain?” he finally asked, not sceptical exactly, not even disapproving or scared. More like it was a puzzle that he was trying to figure out. “You want me to cause you pain?”

Bond’s blink was slightly surprised, but then thoughtful. “Never thought about it,” he admitted, head tilting the other way as he frowned down at his injuries as if they were a personally offensive conundrum, “If you want the honest-to-god-answer, I have no idea, but I think that it would be safe to say that I don’t mind if you do. Too much and you might trigger a nastier response, though.” The last bit he admitted with an apologetic twist of his lips, but he seemed unable to stop himself from leaning in to press his mouth to Q’s temple.

Q hesitated a moment longer, then deliberately resettled his hand on Bond’s torso and leaned in the slightest bit… Both into the kiss and into Bond’s chest.

They held still for a long moment, just standing there, before Q pulled back. He looked down, seeming shy for a moment, then abruptly seemed to change tracks and met Bond’s eyes squarely. “Alright?” he asked, searching Bond’s face for clues.

Some of the blue in the agent’s eyes had given way to expanding black pupil, even if his expression remained intent. A noise rolled up his chest that was too soft for a growl but far too gravelly to be properly called a purr (besides, agents did _not_ purr), and Bond dove back in, this time going for Q’s cheek-bone, settling the next two kisses progressively closer to the smaller man’s mouth. “If it means you’ll keep touching me,” he said in a husky, low voice when his mouth wasn’t making mischief, “it’s more than all right.” The way he rolled his body in closer - impervious to what put pressure where - proved that he was telling the truth, even as he sealed his mouth against Q’s.

Q gasped into the kiss, his body responding beautifully to Bond’s demands to get _closer_. When they broke for air however, Q’s eyes were still sharp, still examining Bond. It was completely different from how he’d been weeks ago, on the beach, when he’d seemed so very out of it. No less intense though. Far from it. Q’s focus had been a bit of turn-on for James even when it’d been directed at a laptop. To have all that focus directed at him...

Q’s lips turned up into a grin and his eyes sparkled with mischief. “You know… I’ve had a lot of time on my hands these last few weeks. I might’ve been doing some research…”

“Research?” Bond replied. To be frank, he found his attention fraying a bit, burning itself up in the heat growing at his core and spreading outwards - a phoenix indeed. He slipped his hands around Q’s ribcage, remembering that comment from so long ago about hating Q’s clothing because it got in his way. “Do tell.”

This request, such a logical one to Bond, finally seemed to throw Q off a bit. His cheeks actually went a little red. At the same time though, he moved closer to Bond, let his hand slide down very slowly down over Bond’s chest, pressing the slightest bit. When he finally did spoke, his voice sounded the slightest bit breathless. “After what we did on the beach… It was different from any way I’d reacted before. I had to understand…” He was definitely blushing now. “And here I was, not allowed to leave MI6, but not allowed to do anything useful either…” The smile he gave was somewhere between self-depreciating and a smirk. “The internet is a very interesting place if you use some google-fu and the right key-words…”

The grin of Bond’s face was now fully fledged, and his pupils had swallowed nearly all of that glacial blue. “I usually just spend my time breaking tech,” he admitted freely, but leaned forward, hungry for another kiss. This time he left hand came up to grasp Q’s nape, squeezing with some of that intense strength he possessed while also coming on fiercely with his mouth. “I’ll try not to break you, though, if you walk me through a bit of what you learned.” He moved to Q’s ear, mouthing it’s rim, asking lowly, “What do you want, Q? What do you _need_?”

Q laughed. “But broken tech doesn’t have nearly as much interesting information on it…” he said, hand straying towards Bond’s hip instead of where he’d really wanted to go. The other hand came up to finger Bond’s hair though, right by the stitches on his scalp. “I read up a _lot_ on all sorts of things…” he shivered as Bond’s tongue slicked behind his ear and lingered there. “Far too much to put into practice right now. But there’s a thing or two on there about people who enjoy being made helpless…” Another swipe of James’ tongue, another shiver, “And people who enjoy being hurt…” His fingers strayed even closer to Bond’s stitches. “And all sorts of other things…” Now James was the one who shivered, as Q’s hand grazed his stitches ever so slightly.  
  
When he pulled back a little, Q’s eyes had grown dark in return, but there was still that focus: Examining, weighting options, looking at James. Looking _through_ James.

Rocking his head a bit - partially into the touch, which was like a spark through his awareness, almost too much sensation but somehow still not enough - Bond growled, then twisted his head to mouth at the pulse-point of Q’s throat. He nipped, but was watchful enough to then ask, “Does this do anything for you?” He seemed sincerely curious.

Q gasped. He’d allowed his long fingers to slip away from the stitches and down to cup Bond’s jaw. When Bond pulled away, so did he, at least far enough to meet Bond’s eyes. “Further experimentation is needed, but I think I like being made helpless. I might like a degree of pain, but not in the same way you seem to. I don’t have any experience in that. If our previous activities are any indication, it seems very likely I also enjoy a measure of dominance, which effectively makes me what is called a switch. I do not yet know how much I enjoy giving pain, but it seems I have fewer problems with this than I might’ve expected.”

Hearing Q talk about what was essentially really kinky sex in such a posh, matter of fact way, it made James wonder if he’d have a problem staying focused next time on a mission when Q was giving simple instructions in his ear. The mixture of sensation and factual speech was spinning his head around, but in the best way. Deciding that payback was in order, he pushed forward, until he had his new handler backed against the wall. He made a rough noise as his shoulder protested, but rolled over with it the stubbornness of a 00-agent, the ensuing endorphins lighting up his system like firecrackers. He latched his mouth onto the side of Q’s neck, sucking a bruise to the surface as he pinned Q in place.

Q gasped, letting his head fall to the side, giving Bond free reign. His hands scrambled for purchase for a moment, before one hand settled flat against the wall, the other wrapped around Bond’s neck, keeping his head in place. He moaned, and after a moment the fingers on Bond’s neck wound into the hairs at the base of his skull and tightened, not pulling him away, pulling him closer if anything, but pulling the hair there regardless.

Groaning his approval, Bond shifted to untuck Q’s button-down with a rough but efficient tug. Then, after making a noise that might have been a smug sort of chuckle into the side of Q’s neck, he let his hands steal underneath so that he could stroke warm skin.

A shiver stole all the way through Q’s body and his head fell back a little further still. “James…” The name came out as a sigh more than a word, and there was an urgency behind it that hadn’t been there before. The fist in Bond’s hair tightened and pulled until the slight discomfort evolved into mild pain. Bond gave way and as soon as his mouth was within reach, Q attacked it. The kiss was unskilled, even by Q’s standards, but Q seemed hell-bent on devouring Bond’s lip in any way he could.

“Greedy little bastard,” Bond got out between biting kisses, his hands rising up Q’s back until it was hiking his shirt up, revealing pale skin to cooler air before the heat of Bond’s palms soothed it again. At some point, he’d have to get those buttons undone, but Q was keeping him quite busy.

Q laughed and gave Bond’s hair another yank. “Your fault, you know?” he said breathlessly, before going right back to kissing and trying to map Bond’s mouth with his tongue. The next time he backed off, again tightening his fist to keep Bond at a distance, he was smirking and his eyes were shining with mirth. “Besides, excuse me for being a little eager after six bloody weeks!”

“Oh, so you did miss me then?” Bond smiled roguishly, taking advantage of the distance to lay siege to Q’s buttons, undoing them at an indecent speed - and touching whatever skin was revealed.

“What do you think? Also? Alec needs a lesson on timing. A long lesson. Preferably a painful one. Feel up to helping?”

“Oh, I think that’s going to be difficult,” 007 mused, getting the last buttons undone. He smoothed his hand across Q’s collarbone, mapping it as Q had been mapping his mouth, but with a purposeful gentleness that was teasing. “Want to know why?” Now his smile turned as wicked as a fox in a henhouse.

Q’s smirk grew in tandem with Bond’s and his hands left their perch in order to do some roaming of their own. “Do tell…?”

Shucking his jacket like it annoyed him, Bond tilted Q’s head back so that he could lick from the hollow of his throat up to the underside of his chin. As he came up to Q’s mouth again, hot breath wafting across Q’s lips, the agent grinned and whispered, “I happen to know that Alec _is_ a masochist. I don’t believe punishing him would really serve the purpose you want it to.”

This startled an actual laugh from Q, and even as he threw his arms around Bond’s shoulders and pulled him closer, he kept laughing. “We’re creative. I’m sure we’d be able to come up with a torture he doesn’t enjoy if we work together…”

When he pulled back, his eyes were shining and he looked incredibly care-free.

“Let’s do that later though, because right now…” he looked down a second, suddenly shy, then back up again. “Maybe we can relocate this to your bedroom?”

Bond’s eyes darkened another shade, and the look on his face turned possessive as it swept up and down Q’s body, which was still mostly clothed but must have held the secrets of the world, from the way he was looking. “As fun as it would be to fuck you over the table, I think we can do that,” he rumbled teasingly, and then backed up, pulling Q with him - because apparently physical contact was a necessity for him.

Q’s pupils had widened noticeably at Bond’s gaze and words, and the grin was back. He seemed to think for a moment, like he was figuring out some complex logistic situation, then shrugged. Without pulling loose from Bond or stalling even a second, he finished opening the buttons Bond had started on even as he got pulled along. When he got his shirt open, he started on his fly, getting it open just as they passed the threshold of the bedroom.

“Fuck, you’re not going to leave me anything to do, are you?” Bond joked with faked offense, even as he reeled Q in close, distracting him with a kiss that quickly deepened. Then, while the smaller man was still close, the agent deftly twisted them around, Q’s back landing on the bed only a moment later.

Braced over Q, 007 felt the surge of pain up his arm, but the agony overwhelmed him for only a second - it was like a game, a challenge played out within his own body. The pain was an enemy that he could attack, and now he relished the sensation of beating it back, leaving only the rush of victory and the sharp tang of discomfort that sharpened all of his senses to razor sharpness. When he opened his eyes again to pant down at Q, his gaze was intense, ragged, and hungrily raw.

Q met Bond’s eyes and gasped, hands immediately coming up to wind into his hair. He laughed breathlessly. “You really do like that, don’t you?” he asked, something like wonder or admiration shining through in his eyes along with the arousal. “Bloody hell James…”

After a moment he laughed. “And apparently you’re a James now. You know, I never did call you that before because… because… I honestly don’t know. But I think you’re a James now. Is that alright?”

Sinking down closer to Q ,even though they were still almost half off the bed, Bond replied even as he took the liberty of worrying Q’s collarbone with his teeth, “Anything is all right, Q, so long as this…” He gave a harder bite - slow and deep, the pressure increasing slowly as if testing the limits - as if to indicate all that they were doing. “...Doesn’t have to end. You can call me an utter bastard for all I care.”

Q gasped and tossed his head as his eyes fluttered and at first he seemed to be enjoying it, panting through the bruising feeling of teeth on skin. After a while though, when Bond didn’t let up, the hands in Bond’s hair suddenly tightened and yanked.

Q lay there for a long moment, panting and looking up wide-eyed. When he finally regained his breath and bearings, he came up a little, resting on his elbows. “Not too much of that, I reckon,” he said, sounding a bit sour about it. “More your thing than mine. But that’s alright.” He took a deep breath and fell silent for a moment. Then he looked back up. “What you just said though… I know it’s a spur of the moment thing and that, but not everything is alright, not for either of us. And that? That _is_ alright. And if you or I ever want to stop? We’re stopping. Being all big and muscly and a superspy doesn’t mean that you won’t ever want to back out.” Q took a moment to pull himself up on the bed, finally adjust the glasses that had been knocked askew ages ago. They were new glasses, Bond absently noted, with heavy black frames. They suited Q, somehow. Now though, Q was laughing a little uncomfortably, and that didn’t suit him at all. “And man, did I mess that one up... Sorry to break the mood like that.”

Looking remarkably relaxed - pupils still blown, but body at ease - Bond followed Q up the bed enough to rest his weight between Q’s legs, folding his arms and propping his head on them over Q’s stomach and just watching him with a curious expression. It was as if he’d never figure Q out, but would live a happy life trying. “No mood broken,” he responded, shrugging his shoulders but also moving a bit - the flexing muscles of his stomach pressed down and created friction over the crotch of Q’s trousers. The little hint of a grin started up on Bond’s mouth said he’d done that entirely on purpose. He reached out a hand to soothe it over the bite he’d left over Q’s left clavicle. “And no more of that, no.”

Quint squinted, studying him. “And if you want to stop, you’ll say so, yes?”

The nod he got in return was unhesitant and sure. “I think I’m grown up enough to let you know if I don’t like something,” he flashed a grin, then let his hand wander up further, thumb rubbing at one of the love-bites he’d already left on Q’s neck. Pushing himself up to loom over Q as if he couldn’t help it, the agent looked with clear lust and pride at the mark, before glancing to Q’s eyes and mouth. “Now - any chance you’d allow a few more bites like these…?” he asked with a nonchalance that would have been more believable if he didn’t obviously look like he wanted to eat Q alive.

Q rolled his eyes. “This is serious, you know?” he said, but the smile that obviously wanted to break through and the hand that seemed to have taken on a life of their own and was now exploring Bond’s inner thigh took any sting out of his words. Q followed Bond’s eyes as they were drawn to the movement and he laughed ruefully. “But I suppose if you’re aware of that…” Now he was definitely stopping a grin. “I could absolutely be persuaded…”

Bond’s low hum was definitely appreciative. “First things first…” He unexpectedly rocked back on his knees, and made swift work of his own belt and zip, leaving him soon in just his pants - although Q didn’t get long to enjoy the view, because then Bond was on him again, pressing kisses up his stomach and sternum while calloused hands pressed him down to the bed, flush with the skin of Q’s hips. Teeth scraped occasionally, but 007 was a quick learner, and didn’t try anymore harsh, deep bites. In fact, as he reached the one he’d left, something in his entire frame seemed to physically soften: muscles eased, and he licked freely at the livid wound.

Q, who had responded with hums and moans as Bond seemed to be doing his best to leave his whole neck one big hickey, tensed up the slightest bit when Bond approached the bite, but as Bond laved attention to the rapidly forming bruises left by his teeth, the other man seemed to melt completely. Still with his lips over the mark, Bond lowered one hand down to Q’s trousers, playing with the fly that Q had gotten undone on the way here. “We once again seem to be in unequal states of undress,” he pointed out with a gravely edge roughening his tone delightfully. His hand got a bit more daring, until the backs of his fingers were just brushing against Q’s cock through his pants.

Q gasped at the touch and for a moment, his head fell back completely and he just breathed. Then though, he started ineffectively squirming and kicking his legs, only barely missing Bond, as he tried to get out of the trowsers without getting out from underneath Bond. That set the agent to laughing, but he gave Q one last fierce kiss to tide him over, then got off him again to help in the undressing part of the operation. Bond was clearly as impatient as Q was, but his hands were still quick and efficient, proving that there was an upside to the amount of practice he had in bed.

Q laughed as well and made short work of any and all clothing on his person. “You know, you complain about our states of undress, but honestly it’s all your fault,” he said while finally getting rid of of his trousers. “I kept trying to get rid of them, but you were distracting me!” There went the shirt and, without a second thought, his pants. “Now then, mister Bond, shall we?” he extended a long-fingered hand in mocking invitation, mischief shining in his eyes as he let them rove over Bond’s body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I (ginnyvos) was downed by the flu from hell and spend almost two weeks being absolutely useless. This means we haven't got the next chapter (probably one but last, but who knows where this monster will take us... It's not going to bother following any of my plans, that much is for sure) completely written yet and that you might have to wait a bit longer than normal... I'm really hoping Truth and me will find space to write this week, and since our posting schedule is shot anyway I'm not going to make any promises. We were doing so well, too!
> 
> Either way, both Truth and me are kind of new to this thing, but both of us are of the very firm conviction that kink-negotiations are _sexy_ , brief as this one might be. What do you guys think?


	41. Chapter 41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bond takes Q _apart_.

Grinning back wolfishly, 007 let him look for only a second before surging forward. Bringing his larger body over Q’s, he reclaimed his previous place between Q’s legs, holding himself back just far enough and long enough to return the appreciative glance. “And what about you distracting me?” he asked back with a playfully offended tone, drawing a hand at the same time from Q’s hip, along to the inside of his thigh - just bare inches from even more sensitive areas - and up to his knee. Steady pressure pushed the limb outwards to give Bond room to sink down lower and closer, hunger and desire rolling off him like heat.

Quint gasped and squirmed, seemingly unsure if he wanted to move away from the hand or closer to it or to move so it could only touch just there. “You-” he grasped at the sheets, “You weren’t trying half as hard as I was! You-” he finally got out, trying for accusing but falling short and letting out a laugh as he tried to lift his head high enough to watch Bond’s hand descend. “You’re even still wearing your pants! Shame on you!”

“Maybe this is payback for the island, with you and your unwrapping of presents speech,” Bond grinned with an unrepentant smirk that was nothing short of wicked. His full weight was either on Q now or on his arms, and he once again growled and half-closed his eyes as the pain of pulling wounds sent waves of stimulation down his nerves. He wasn’t completely distracted, though - he couldn’t be, with his eyes devouring Q, completely naked beneath him. “Looks like I finished unwrapping first this time.” Another grin was flashed Q’s way, lazy and full of all the good kinds of danger. “I’m going to enjoy this.”

Q let out a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a gulp and his head shot up to meet Bond’s eyes. Something in him changed, although Bond couldn’t quite say what. It seemed like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite figure out what, like his mind was working but Q couldn’t quite focus on it anymore. Finally, the younger man just sagged back in the mattress and relaxed, eyes locked with Bond’s, mouth slightly open and body, relaxed, waiting… inviting.

Heart hammering out a rhythm that Q must have been able to feel, too, Bond took a moment to just stare at that relaxed face, committing to memory those elegant lines and the surprising beauty - like this, Q looked like a picture, a work of art. If he weren’t warm and alive under 007’s weight, the agent might have been tempted to believe that this was unreal. But Q was always under his skin, and now he was determined to return the favor as much as he was physically able. “Beautiful,” he found the time to breath out the phrase, before latching his lips on the outer point of Q’s left collarbone, tonguing the sleek ridge of bone but only nibbling gently. His hands shifted from purely holding himself up to caressing up and down the smaller man’s sides, Bond’s left arm tracing Q’s arm, even as it made him sink closer. “Tell me if I’m crushing you,” he had the presence of mind to say, as he trapped a wrist in the cage of his left hand.

Q let out a breathless laugh and reached up to gently trace Bond’s jaw with long fingers. “You’re not crushing me,” he assured him, and then, a glimpse of mischief sneaking into his expression even as he ducked his head, “I wouldn’t mind if you did, a little…”

When Q ducked his head, Bond merely used the excuse to rub his lips across Q’s ear, but his words showed his smile, “You only have to ask.” A bit more weight eased down, 007 groaning as he rolled his hips, the edge on the noise showing that he was perhaps growing frustrated with his pants as well. The friction was delicious, though. “Orders like this,” Bond added with frank approval, taking the one wrist he still had in his possession and pushing it almost mindlessly upwards, above Q’s head, “I’m happy to follow.”

Q pressed up into Bond’s body, letting out a breath as more and more of the man’s weight was pressed down on him. “That’s-” he gasped, “That’s good to know, agent…”

“Having trouble with your words, Q?” 007 responded, catching the brief break in the sentence. He found that he liked having Q stretched out like this - he liked the pull on his own bright aches, and the feel of Q’s lean frame squirming under him while he kept one slender wrist above them both. Bond took Q’s mouth in a kiss that seemed intent on taking all of the air in Q’s lungs, even as he leaned into the hand still near his cheek. He pulled back just enough to growl in a lower voice, “How about I take some more of those fancy words of yours?”

Q shivered and tried to arch his back, to press into Bond even closer, only to find out he couldn’t. Not with Bond’s weight pushing him down. That thought alone was enough to blank his mind for a long moment, and then sending it into overdrive. Bond’s words… Gods.

Q tried again, couldn’t keep himself from trying again, shivered again when he still just _couldn’t_. He was stuck. Well and truly stuck with nothing more but Bond’s weight and Bond’s hand and “ _Fuck_ …”

He tried again, just because- because- because _fuck_.

Bond shifted in response to the continued movement, but didn’t lift - possibly because it was all grinding up against him, and he was seeing sparks. Instead of moving away, he curled closer and lower, burying his face against Q’s neck and murmuring to the skin behind the back hinge of his jaw, “Shh, Q, I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” He groaned a bit himself and added while burying the fingers of his free hand in Q’s mess of hair, “And you’ve no idea how much _I like it_.” He pushed down his his hips to emphasize his point.

Q’s breath stuttered at the admission and for a moment, he went completely lax, eyes crossing, his mind blanking again, before a frantic sort of gratitude-want-need-happiness-lust-need came over him. He tried again to arch his body, failed again, but it wasn’t enough, He wanted- needed- wanted- he wasn’t sure what he wanted, except that he wanted Bond, and that he wanted more and needed more and why wasn’t his brain working properly? His brain was always working! It didn’t matter. He just needed-

Q’s hand flew up from where it’d been grasping ineffectively at the sheets only to grasp at Bond’s shoulder blade just as ineffectively even as his legs wound their way around him, scrambling to get closer to this man, to Bond, to _James_. “I want-” he panted, then stopped, at a loss of how continue.

“Let me learn what you want,” the blond man rumbled, pressing light kisses down against Q’s cheek and jaw while flexing against the pale limbs wrapped around him. The bossy, dominant side of his nature revelled for a second in the knowledge that he was physically strong enough to get loose - to forcefully break Q’s hold - but then he sighed and eased into it instead. The contact reminded him that this was reality - not the memories of missions past always fogging the darker edges of his thoughts. “Q?”

Q had pressed his head into Bond’s neck and was unleashing an uncoordinated assault of sloppy open mouthed kisses alternated with sucking, scraping teeth and licks on the soft hollow where Bond’s neck met his shoulder. He let out an incomprehensible noise and tried and failed to leverage himself closer to Bond with his one free arm.

“Q, this question is actually a bit important,” Bond pressed the issue, although he sounded closer to chuckling - or, he would have, if he weren’t so bloody distracted by the pleasure rolling through him. Q was incredibly distracting when he moved this much… Determined to temporarily remove just enough of that distraction to let himself think, Bond caught Q’s other wrist, using a bit of his innate strength to push it up beside its twin against the rumpled sheets.

Q resisted, his hand grappling ineffectively for purchase. The moment his wrist hit the mattress though, all the fight went out of him and he looked up at Bond. Then he pouted.

He looked down into Q’s face with one eyebrow raised and a smile curled at one side of his mouth, “I was going to say that it will be a bit hard for me to remove the last article of my clothing with you clinging to me like an octopus.”

Quint held on to his pout for a moment longer before a positively evil grin took over his features. Bond had but a moment to prepare before Q’s legs tightened and his arms tensed and suddenly Q lurched up as far as he was able to and latched on to Bond’s shoulder, only just shy of the bandage, centimeters away from his wound. Bond could feel it as the grin broadened and then Q sucked for a long moment before his teeth, feeling sharp and blunt at the same time, started increasing the pressure on his shoulder, putting more and more force in the bite even as he licked and sucked on the skin.

It was like a repeat of Bond’s bite to Q’s collarbone, only the difference was, the agent _liked it_. He groaned and his body bucked, arching to curl his shoulder closer even as pain lit like a fire in his system - an aurora borealis to light the night sky. His powerful hands tightened down like steel cuffs around Q’s wrists, still in his grip, and the noises Bond made lacked any sort of words for a moment as he let his head fall into the crook between Q’s shoulder and neck. When he did speak again, it wasn’t English. The correct language had quite flown out of his head as Q bit down so close to the already pulsing wound.

Q rolled his hips into Bond’s movement, the cloth between them not enough to distract from the feeling of their cocks rubbing together. He let the pressure increase for a moment longer, trying to find a boundary, an edge, but then, with a last hard suck, he let go and fell back into the mattress. When he looked up at Bond, he was panting, but his expression was smug as anything. “Octopuses have eight limbs James,” he said, grinning, “Do keep up..”

Muttering something that was still in probably Russian before switching consciously to English again - like a program laboriously rebooting - Bond said succinctly with lust-dark eyes, “I’m going to make you pay for that, you little shit.” He didn’t sound at all angry, of course, which rather changed the effect and meaning of his threat.

Quint looked up at him, still smug, and laughed. “I’m sure you will. In fact, I’m counting on it.” He rolled his hips. “Quite soon, too, hopefully…”

“Ah,” Bond made a sound as if he finally understood, eyes flicking up to his hands still busy with Q’s wrists and drifting down like a physical touch along Q’s side, hip, and the left leg wrapped around Bond’s side. “So that’s how we’re going to play this, is it?” His grin became purposefully and shamelessly benign. “Why didn’t you say so?” With a patient sort of air that was rather cracked around the edges - the stinging bite to his shoulder must still have been sending little shockwaves through him, like the after-effects of a drug - he carefully shifted his grip, transferring both of Q’s wrists into one of his before locking down again. This freed up one hand, and he grinned at Q slyly as he noticed.

When he brought his free hand down to touch, it was with a surprisingly light fashion, contrasting with the rest of his strength like cold shiver against warm flesh. He skimmed just his fingertips down Q’s ribs, watching the movement with leisurely appreciation. Then he shifted - awkwardly getting up on his knees a bit more, movements restricted by the hold Q still had on him - just enough to get his hand in between them and run the backs of scarred knuckles from Q’s Solar Plexus down the flat, quivering muscles below Q’s navel, to finally reach his cock. He still only brushed it, though, and looked up to smirk at Q, as if to ask how he was doing. “Better?” he asked pleasantly.

Q let out an aborted moan and tried to buck up, tried to get more of that touch, more of Bond’s hands. He’d thought that if he challenged Bond, if he got him wound up, it would move things along… Or something. Actually, he wasn’t one-hundred percent sure what he’d thought to achieve. This wasn’t it.

He blinked open his eyes - and when had he closed them? - to glare up at Bond. He wondered if he could still reach that shoulder, even if Bond was now a little further away. He elected to tighten his legs and capture Bond’s hand between their respective cocks instead.

They gasped in unison and Q saw sparks. Well, that was effective… Sort of, anyway.

Looking glorious and wrecked with his own eyes closed and muscles bunched beneath his skin, 007 panted a moment before growling, “Fuck waiting.” Then he was pushing in close again, as if every inch of him wanted to devour Q whole until there was nothing that wasn’t at least part his.

Bond’s mouth was on Q’s, forceful and hungry, pushing Q’s head down to the bed even as Bond’s body lowered until the heat of him felt almost feverish. Apparently, he’d given up on teasing Q and instead made it his goal to break him to pieces. Hand still between their bodies - and his own erection still horribly frustrated by that one layer of cloth he hadn’t managed to get rid of - 007 took Q’s cock in hand and stroked it in earnest, pre-cum slicking the way just enough for it not to be uncomfortable. Still refusing to release Q’s hands, Bond broke the kiss messily, dragging in a pull of air before twisting his head to get at Q’s neck to mark up the skin still more. “If I’m going to be frustrated,” he muttered fiercely between soft bites and hard kisses, moving his way down Q’s chest, “you’re going to know what it feels like.”

Q gasped and tossed his head, body trying to writhe and buck, to find more friction or help or any other thing, but mostly failing under Bond’s weight. “Bond-” Q gasped, then let out a string of incoherent noises, then, “ _James!”_

Q’s movements became more and more frantic as Bond’s movements became harder, more demanding. He was keening now, the sound desperate and frantic. His hands were grasping at the air, desperate for something, anything to hold on to. When 007 leaned forward, athletic body stretching out over Q to kiss and suck at the tips of those seeking fingers, drawing them into his mouth and nipping at the pads. “Say my name again.” It was perhaps meant to be a command - an order - but somewhere along the way it twisted into a plea, low and rough because 00-agents aren’t the breed to plea for anything. 007 hid it by kissing his way back down Q’s arms, running his teeth along one bicep.

Q gasped as Bond sucked at his fingers, thrashing growing even wilder. His eyes were wide open, irises almost completely taken over by the pupil. For a while, it seemed like Q hadn’t heard him, like his words hadn’t registered, his lips just moving around the meaningless syllables and gasps for breath, but just as his body stiffened, his back arched strongly enough that he actually lifted Bond’s mass, head back and eyes squeezed closed, there it was. “James,” he gasped, “James! James, James, James, gods, _James!”_

Bond just about came in his pants, and his whole body clenched while his breath caught. It was as if the name were a key being shoved into a lock deep in his chest, twisting in a rush of sensation. The knowledge that Q was coming now in his hand, striping both of their bellies with cum, made something deep and predatory and possessive purr in his chest. Despite the fact that he’d made scores of people come in his history of bedding friends and foes alike, this seemed like a singular victory that stood out with diamond-clarity. Bond soothed Q through his release, letting go of his arms slowly and reaching the point where he was more petting Q’s cock than pumping it - using gentleness once again, where force was usually in his nature. “Perfect,” he murmured, lips pressed softly against Q’s neck, “So bloody perfect, Q.” His own cock was straining frustratedly against his pants, but the nagging want faded to the back of his head as he focused on the simple euphoria of feeling Q quivering and happy in his arms. By now, both of Bond’s arms were braced down on either side of Q’s rib-cage again, so every deep inhale brushed them.

Q lay panting, his arms still over his head where Bond had put them, a blissed out smile on his face. Bond took a moment to just look at him, taking in the… peacefulness there. Maybe it was because 00-agents so rarely trod any paths that weren’t hectic or tense or full of emotions, but suddenly this look of contentedness was something that Bond wanted to soak right into his skin - and the knowledge that he’d put that look there made him hum pleasantly under his breath and praise Q’s lips with gentle, open-mouthed kisses, not caring if the smaller man reacted or not. Q was incredible when he was ferociously thinking about something, or intellectually battering a problem, but Bond liked this look on him, too. Back on the island, he’d teased with the idea of taking Q’s razor intellect apart, but he’d never thought that he’d actually get to do it, or value the openness beneath so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So remember how I said last chapter that I didn't know what this beast was going to do either? Well the chapter count went up again. Part of me feels this is bad practice. The other part is pretty sure you guys will not care. Hope you enjoy, and since the next chapter is written in full as well, it should be there on a decent schedule.
> 
> Also, the amazing riandoesart managed to suck me into the black hole that is tumblr, so if any of you want to connect, come find me as ginnyvos on there! Let me know who you are and how you found me and I'll add you back.


	42. Chapter 42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Q makes devious plans for double-oh wrangling, Bond has no idea what hit him and Q really, _really_ likes giving blowjobs.
> 
> Still very much NSFW folks, if the summary didn't tip you off...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's blowjobs and talk of scars in this chapter. If that's triggery for you, please take care.

It took a while for Quint’s mind to form words, no less string them together into some sort of coherent thought. He was drifting, body all warm and tingly and content. After a while though, it became clear that breathing would become a problem before long. It took him another moment to become aware of the fact that just thinking it wouldn’t make James move, and then a little longer yet of trying to come up with coherent words to achieve this to realise his hands were free and he could use them.

Quint’s arms felt strained when he did move them, like he’d been exercising or some such. It didn’t stop him from pushing at Bond’s shoulder, though, trying to get the man to move. “Heavy,” he finally found the words to say, and was that honestly his voice? He sounded _wrecked_.

“Hmm?” For a moment, Bond was clearly just as lost as he was, pupils still blown to swallow the glacial blue of his eyes as he turned to Q’s face. It was the shove on his shoulder that did it - the same sparks of pain that sent endorphins rushing through his system centered him, too. “Sorry, Q,” he murmured, smiling with fond amusement as he pushed himself off Q, moving so that he lounged back against the headboard. From that position he could watch Q, eyes unashamedly appreciative. It didn’t matter that he was still hard in his pants. Eyeing his spent partner was worth it.

Quint lost no time scrambling after him, but couldn’t actually find the will to lift himself up to match Bond’s position against the headboard. Instead, he contented himself with snuggling up against Bond’s hip and and a muscular leg, fingers idly tracing the lines of muscles and scars he found there. “Didn’t say you had to go so bloody far,” he grumbled, trying for a pout.

“The view was better from up here,” Bond defended himself blithely, while his eyes went hooded and indeed proceeded to take in said view all the more. At this point, with Q close against him and running his fingers up and down his leg, it was hard to tell whether the agent was still drifting in idle lassitude, or whether he was actually trying very hard to keep himself under control and not ruin the moment.

Q rolled his eyes, going so far as to lift his head to make sure Bond could see this. “I’m sure it is. Idea was that you were going to move though, not me!” he said, smirking. He then put his head back down, because honestly, this position put a lot of strain on his neck. Besides, looking at those legs close up was definitely no punishment…

He traced a particularly vicious scar on Bond’s thigh, wondering what could’ve put it there. He’d seen scars before, of course, but never this many and definitely not this ragged. He couldn’t imagine any way in which a wound would scar like this with proper medical treatment which… Well, actually, that wasn’t all that surprising seeing how James had dealt with his wounds back on the island. That was going to stop, Quint decided. Apparently he had no problem using those wounds to give James the pleasure/pain he seemed to crave (And fancy that. Reading up on these things during the long nights at MI6, he most definitely hadn’t expected to be applying any of it so soon, never mind these aspects of pain play… He honestly hadn’t even thought himself to be capable of it, before.) but that didn’t mean that Bond would get to let wounds get out of hand to the extend that had to be responsible for that scar.

“Why are you so unkind to yourself?” he finally asked. He hadn’t even really meant to, but the words slipped out and, well, he was honestly interested in the answer.

Eyes following the path of Q’s hand, Bond answered, clearly in too good a mood to be troubled by the question, “I’m not paid to be kind, if you haven’t noticed. I’m paid for results. Occasionally…” His larger hand - also scarred - joined Q’s, barely brushing the jagged mark where flesh had once been parted and barely sewn together again. “Occasionally, that means I don’t really have time to avoid things like this. Medical care is sometimes chancy, too, when I’m out of the country.” He moved his hand away again, and it drifted down to land on Q’s back, knuckles and the pad of his thumb gently stroking a slow patch down Q’s vertebrae.

Q’s eyes sharpened a little as his mind became more aware and examined the answer from all angles. He didn’t look up to meet Bond’s eyes though, and his fingers never left up on their gentle motions, moving on to a different scar, less large but no less ragged. “Yet on the island, Sam tried very hard to make sure your injuries could heal properly, and you tried to sabotage her every step of the way. From what I’ve heard, she was more successful than MI6’s own medical department.” He didn’t know why he was bringing this up, and certainly now, but now that the question had been asked… He needed to know. Not just because he was curious - he was, but that was another matter - but because if they chose to continue this… _thing_ they had, he needed to know how to make it stop. He still didn’t understand why James Bond, a man who, by all accounts, seduced his way through every continent and then some, who was strong and clever and handsome and honestly _good_ , who came so very close to the heros Q had spend his childhood idolizing - and not just his childhood, if he was very honest with himself - would want anything to do with Q. It seemed to be a done deal, though, and that meant he needed to know.

Sighing and for the first time shifting in a fashion that perhaps hinted that he was uncomfortable (the cock straining against his trousers was still a point of contention that he was doing an admirable job of ignoring in favor of just petting Q, thus far), Bond pressed his hand flat against Q’s shoulder-blade. “In the long-term, you’re right - survival would be much easier if I just sat down and didn’t drive all medical personnel batty. But I’m a 00-agent, Q. I think in the short-term, and that means being able to move, run, react-” ‘ _And kill_.’ He didn’t finish that sentence. “It’s usually not quite as bad as it was back on the island, to be honest.” He defended himself, but didn’t put much effort into it. As he shrugged, his hand started moving again, rising up to finger the love-bites marring the pale slope of Q’s neck.

Quint let himself press into the touch, closing his eyes at the sensation. Had he always been this much more sensitive after orgasm? He couldn’t quite recall. He opened his eyes again and moved on to the next line of scars. Little ones this time, forming a line at the side of Bond’s knee. He was going to learn first aid, he promised himself, become a full on medic if he had to. At least that way if Bond avoided medical, he could come to Q. And if he was out on the field, at least Q would know what to badger him into doing. He was a bloody genius, learning medicine shouldn’t be a problem. He could ask Sam for pointers on where to start. For all that Bond had driven her to distraction, from what he’d heard from both Bond himself and at MI6, she had done a lot better than medical ever managed. Wait a second… “I should just sic Sam on you whenever you get like that,” he said, mouth curling up in a mischievous grin even as the odd mood that’d taken him by surprise earlier lifted. He had a _plan_.

Bond snorted, clearly amused. “Fine, Q. Whatever you say,” he gave in, or at least pretended to give in as much as 00-agents ever did.

Q’s grin widened to involve a frankly alarming amount of teeth. “Oh, trust me, it will…” He could just see it now. He would have to work his way up in the ranks a little, of course, but he could most definitely manage that. Once M came to trust him, he would tell her how Sam had managed to badger Bond into receiving proper medical attention. He would feel no guilt, tattling on James, it would be for his own good, of course, and once she knew… Well, she would be mad not to offer Sam positively obscene amounts of money to come and work for MI6 as professional double-oh wrangler. Besides, he had a feeling the two women would get on like a house on fire, and while that was more than a little frightening, if it meant James would get proper medical attention, it was definitely worth it. Besides, having Sam around full time? He couldn’t say he’d mind.

Chuckling a little at the challenge he could sense coming in his future, 007 relaxed back a bit more, huffing out a slight breath as he stretched, muscles rolling. By this point, his hand had strayed further upwards, until it was buried lightly in Q’s hair, and seemed content to stay there, carding through the unkempt strands.

Quint laughed, his fingers tracing their way up James’s calf, following the muscles there and then on over his inner thigh, sending little sparks of pleasure up James’s legs until his fingers found their path barred by the edge of Bond’s boxers. He traced those for a moment, idly, his eyes wandering up to the bulge there. A flash of inspiration struck then, making the toothy grin from earlier come back in full force.

Before James quite knew what was happening, Quint went from completely lax and relaxed to toppling himself over James’s leg. He did it with less grace than he might’ve prefered, but Q couldn’t bring himself to care as he was suddenly face to face with the other man, hands on both sides of his hips and looking him square in the face before very deliberately looking down at the bulge in his pants. “You know, it’s been a good long while since I’ve given anyone a blowjob, but I think I more or less remember how to do it…” he said, meeting James’ eyes again for a moment, before looking down again and quite deliberately licking his lips.

Truth was, Quint _liked_ giving blowjobs. A lot. He’d done it only a couple of times in the past, but he remembered vividly. He didn’t quite understand why the idea hadn’t occurred to him before, but he supposed James was just _that_ distracting.

For a moment, it looked like James was the one who was distracted, actual surprise showing on his handsome face as he blinked. “You don’t have to,” he replied, in the polite tone of a person who knows the proper responses to things like this… although the dilation of his pupils was giving him away, as was the one hand coming up to stroke Q’s arm from shoulder to dexterous hand.

Quint laughed. “Oh, I know,” he said, still grinning like a fiend. “But I want to… and so do you, if I’m reading his correctly.” He lifted a hand to trace the bulge that was clearly defined in Bond’s pants, using one single finger, holding Bond’s eyes as he did so.

Bond’s eyes became hooded again, but it served only to highlight rather than hide his interest. Heat like fire roiled and rose up behind the deceptively cool blue of his eyes. He offered a small smile that was all wickedness, something to match the sensual undertones wrapped around his words, “Well, then, if you’re offering, I’d be quite a cad to turn you away, wouldn’t I?”

“Quite,” Quint said, laughing. “See…” he bent down, licking a wet stripe over Bond’s cock, cloth and all. “I rather like…” He breathed out deliberately, making the wet cloth cold to the touch and eliciting a shiver from Bond. “Doing this sort of thing.” He closed his mouth over Bond’s cock, tongue laving attention to it, soaking the cloth. At the same time, a hand worked its way up through one of the leg-holes of his pants, exploring the place where his leg met his pelvis. Bond might have thought any touches to his cock and balls were accidental if it wasn’t for the way the could feel Q grinning against his cock every time his body shivered in involuntary movement when it happened.

“You’re a tease,” he accused, feeling the hunger under his skin wake up from wherever it had drifted off to, when Q had been sated and pliant. Now, it rather appeared that neither of them was going to be pliant, and there was a moment when trust warred with instinct before Bond’s eyes fluttered temporarily closed. Sam _had_ told him that Q was the only person he turned his back to… “A bloody tease.”

“And you’re just realizing this now?” Quint quipped, voice utterly posh and maddeningly smug, and it would’ve been far more amusing if it didn’t mean he had to take his mouth away from Bond’s cock to say it. His hand made its way a little further into Bond’s pants and for a moment Bond thought he meant to take over where his mouth left off, but instead he only brushed the side of Bond’s cock lightly before splaying the hand over his hip. “I did say I’m into submission and dominance both, did I not?” His face was flustered and his pupils blown and he was obviously getting turned on by this too, despite his earlier orgasm. “I suppose I could get a bit of a move on though. After all, you _are_ tragically overdressed.” He smirked again and a second later, his hand was also gone. Bond had only a moment to consider its loss, though, before Q was using both hands to try and rid him of the last article of clothing.

Lifting his hips and hissing out a pleased, sharp breath, 007 assisted eagerly, and for a moment the bullet-wound in his shoulder must have screamed at him, because he closed his eyes again. When they opened, they were heated and hungry. Looking not unlike a large, golden predator, he forced himself to lounge back when it looked like he be very capable of lunging forward. “Better?” he rumbled.

“Much.” And Q did sound happy about it. It took a bit of a gymnastic feat to actually get the pants out of the way without relinquishing his position between Bond’s thighs, but he managed and that only made him feel more smug.

Q’s first instinct was to get straight down to business as soon as the annoying bit of cloth was out of the way, but he kept himself back. After all, things could be so much more fun with a little bit of patience… And besides, he had a lot more of that than Bond did, he’d wager. Instead, he splayed both of his hands over Bond’s inner thighs, watching closely for a reaction. There was power in this, he felt, in not letting himself be rushed and getting to explore, to experiment to his heart’s content.

He bent down to lick and suck at the very edge of a faded scar on Bond’s inner thigh, so high up that it’d been covered by the pants earlier. He wondered what had happened there, but quickly distanced himself from that thought. He wasn’t sure he really wanted to know. It drove him to suck a little harder though, wanting to leave a mark of his own right there, too.

Bond’s eyes closed again, and he gave a low gasp as if Q were pulling the air from his lungs. Instinct still had his eyes opening again quickly though, although it was less to instinctively watch for threats than to simply stare at Q. The muscles of his thighs bunched under his skin as he shifted his legs restlessly, hand twitching against the need to reach out and drag Q to where he wanted him.

Quint could see it, could see James trying not to interfere, to let him do as he pleased. He wondered if at some point in the future, maybe James would let him tie him up. He’d read a thing or two (or ten) about it, and he most certainly liked the idea of being on the receiving end, but the other way around… That was starting to sound just as intriguing. For now though, he set the idea aside and focussed on the matter at hand. He licked his way up, smirked when the red mark he’d left caught his eye, lingered for a moment longer before finally, finally licking a long stripe up the back of James’ cock. It was thick, not quite as long as Q’s own, he thought, but it definitely had more girth. He didn’t think he would be able to fit all of it into his mouth, not really, but then… Practice made perfect did it not? He’d just have to do a lot of practicing. Lots and lots of it. He smirked to himself and started licking again, looking up at Bond through his hair to see his reactions as he experimented with different techniques.

It definitely didn’t look like James had any negative feelings on his work so far. As a matter of fact, he was enjoying himself quite a bit. Considering that he’d been denying himself up until now... perhaps that was not so surprising.

Q smirked and sucked on the very tip for a second, grinning at the resulting twitch running through James’ whole body.

All that self-control and patience that 00-agents learned to wield on missions was growing threadbare now. It was the perfect storm, in a sense: Q had himself a worn-down 00-agent, fresh off a mission and on a hair-trigger already, who’d been ignoring a hard-on in favor of pleasing his partner. To say that James was now coming apart would be a rather glorious understatement. His head rocked back, the muscles of his abdomen flexing and clenching under his tanned skin. One hand finally lost the battle with itself and reached forward, and strong fingers buried themselves deep in Q’s hair. He didn’t pull, though - Bond was still sensible enough to be considerate, somehow.

Quint met Bond’s eyes and smiled, pressing into the hand for a moment. “You’re gorgeous, you know?” he asked, ducking his head a little but never looking away, “Thought so from the very start. But you’re even more gorgeous like this.” He gave Bond’s thigh a squeeze before reaching out and fisting his hand around the root of his cock, his thumb taking a moment to caress the vein on the underside. Then, never looking away from Bond’s face, he lowered his head once more and let his lips slip around the head of Bond’s cock, wet and hot and so very welcome.

Bond groaned, and with every second, Q and the trust Bond felt for him was winning: blue eyes were more closed than open, focusing on sensation rather than sight. The strength in him was apparent where his hand pressed to Q’s scalp, as it began to tease the line between demanding and gentle: by turns, it clenched in Q’s hair, almost but not quite enough to be uncomfortable, but then would forcibly loosen into a heavy stroke. Bond, who usually had the utmost control over his every twitch and movement, even during sex, was having a hard time keeping that iron control in mind as sparks seemed to fly under his skin. His hips jerked and he curled a leg in to press it tight to Q’s flank. “Flattery like that,” he replied a touch breathlessly, voice husky like velvet rubbed the wrong way, “will get you anywhere.”

Q grinned around Bond’s cock and wiggled his tongue into the slit for a moment, still watching for a reaction. Then he sucked, hollowing out his cheeks, and at the same time pulled up and away from Bond’s cock. Bond was making little noises now, little twitches of aborted movements and Quint was definitely developing a kink for those. He wondered what else would do it. He allowed his mind a moment to wander down that path before another twitch of the hand in his hair pulled him back.

Using his free hand to squeeze Bond’s thigh just a tad harder than he normally might’ve done, he let James’ cock slide out of his mouth completely, watching with amusement as it bounced back and forth a little. He resolutely suppressed the urge to poke at it and watch it bounce some more. It was the same part of him that would always long to press the big red button with the ‘do not press’ sign and that couldn’t resist breaking into secret government agencies that he’d really rather not make enemies off. He’d have to unleash it on Bond some other time. Now, he had different plans.

He let his tongue circle the head of Bond’s cock one more time, teasing at the edge of the foreskin just a little, then licked down the shaft, still observing Bond closely and making mental notes of every twitch and sound. This? This was glorious.

Bond’s body had arched back, showing off hard lines of shifting muscle over bone as he started to come apart. He was panting shallowly, open-mouthed, and at Q’s more playful licks his hand would slide down to squeeze and flex over Q’s nape, as if massaging the bones. His other hand was fisted by his side, but when Q was just mouthing at the end of his cock, 007 couldn’t keep that hand to himself either. He reached out with it, stroking the pad of his thumb from Q’s wicked mouth back to the corner of those intelligent eyes. Bond was watching him now with a kind of destroyed, glorious intensity usually only found in fires and predators in their element. “Yes… You’re...yes. Like this,” he groaned, coiling his body upright just enough so that he could reach the dark-haired man with ease, falling in love with playing with his hair and skin.

Quint let out a strangled sort of moan at Bond’s words. They seemed to soothe something at the very core of him and made him lighter, all the while sending a spike of arousal through him. It was mostly a distant thing, his arousal. It was definitely there and he could feel it pulling at him, wanting to take over, but at the same time he didn’t want to let it, wanted to be right here right now and drive Bond bloody mad. That was far more satisfying.

He kept using his tongue and lips to find out all the different angles he could use on Bond’s cock, while at the same time squeezing Bond’s thigh again and then deliberately pushing his hand up along it taking hold of Bond’s balls as gently as he could.

“Yes…” Bond hissed again, one large hand still cupping the side of Q’s face, other hand stroking his neck with surprising gentleness even though the rest of him was tensing and relaxing in waves, a million signals going from his cock to the rest of him. He definitely seemed intent on keeping Q there, powerful legs also pressed close. “Bloody _fuck_ , you’re perfect,” he went on in a tone that said words were very, very hard right now, but he had to push them out anyway. Couldn’t not do so. One hand shifted to trace his thumb against the edge of Q’s lips again, feeling where they also touched his cock. He moved his other hand up to the back of Q’s head like he wanted to pull him in close and fuck into his mouth, but was already too high on sensation to even try. 007’s blond head rocked back again, eyes falling shut.

Another wave of pleasure hit Quint and he couldn’t help but want to envelop James again, want to give him all the pleasure he possibly could. He didn’t see any reason not to, either, and just at the same moment as he gently squeezed his hand around James’s balls, he slipped his lips back around Bond’s cock, sucking to get more in even as he only allowed himself to go down slowly.

It took him a moment to establish a rhythm. He shifted his hand up a little so he could comfortably take in everything above it and started bobbing himself up and down, using his knees and elbows to get enough leverage. Only when he had that going did he start messing about with his tongue, trying stuff out as he went along. Every time he went down, he’d close the hand holding Bond’s balls the slightest bit, opening it again when he went up, massaging the soft globes, reveling in the feeling of soft skin everywhere.

A low, gravelly phrase in Russian slipped out of Bond’s mouth, interspersed by a few quite English profanities, all said in a voice wrecked with lust. Sometimes there were sentences in there, but they all contained Q’s name, and they were all said with desire and praise. Hands dropped now to fist at the bedsheets, expressing enough raw strength to tear them if he wasn’t careful, James struggled not to thrust up into Q’s clever mouth every time he was takenin deeper.

If Quint’s mouth hadn’t been so busy, he’d be all out laughing right now. It felt amazing, doing this to Bond, being able to give him so much pleasure. He sped up his rhythm a little, then some more, all the while torn between looking up to see James’ face, his reactions, and focussing completely on what he was doing. He could feel the other man tensing up under him, muscles tightening more with every undulation, every downward movement of Q’s mouth. He sped up again, aware that he was grinning even around the cock in his mouth.

“Quint… Q.” It said something that James was actually switching names. He did that but rarely. The way he blinked open his eyes at the ceiling for a moment said that he’d even startled himself with how far his mind was. Then, in one long ripple, all of the muscles in his body were drawing up tight, and he panted out one more time, “Perfect. I’m…”

What followed probably was along the lines of ‘I’m about to come,’ but the shuddering of his body told that story better than his words, even as he groaned more deeply than before - a noise pulled from somewhere deep within him.

Quint pushed his mouth down hard one more time, feeling the balls in his hand draw up and releasing them even as he pulled back until only the head was in his mouth and started using the hand around James’ cock to pump him instead. He wanted to taste James, wanted to see all he could from this position as James finally let go. As if commanded by Q’s mouth and hands, the agent did just that, coming with a noise that he muffled with the back of his hand, barely. His whole body shuddered, hips jerking, emptying himself into Q’s mouth.

Slowly, James came down from the height of pleasure, hand dropping to his side to reveal a neat set of pink teeth-marks - testament to just how skilled Q was, that even a 00-agent of Bond’s calibre felt the need to quiet himself a bit. Otherwise, James was quite shameless, long legs splaying and resting loosely against the bed on either side of Q. For a moment, he just panted, looking on the verge of sleep as he collected himself and just focused on the resounding echoes of pleasure still chasing themselves through every nerve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One but last chapter! I would love to know what you guys thought! Seriously, the last chapter is only half written still, since Truth is in the very scary land of no internet this week, so all encouragement helps!


	43. Chapter 43

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the notion of ruling the world is contemplated, then discarded because it'd get in the way of more interesting pursuits, Q will conquer Q-branch by way of drinkable tea and James vetoes Q's evil laughter.

Quint backed off with a few last slow licks to James’ cock. He let himself slip into the blankets, laying half over one of Bond’s legs, resting his head on his lower abdomen. He allowed his fingers free range to explore more of Bond’s skin, stroking idly. James might’ve looked glorious abandoned to his lust, but like this, flushed and satisfied and lax and completely blissed out, he was gorgeous. The thought that he’d get to have this, this man, this thing they had together, more often, made something in him glow with wonder and pleasure. He had so many things he still wanted to figure out, to experiment with. There was still so much to explore, both about his own preferences and Bond’s. He’d have to find time to do some more research, too. He smirked at the thought of using MI6’s network once again to do said research. He was pretty sure they thought they’d bugged his laptop thoroughly enough to monitor any and all internet access, but they still had a lot to learn… And as long as he was the one teaching them, he could keep doing his ‘research’ in peace.

Quint allowed his mind to wander to the work he’d be doing for MI6. It was sort of amazing how much had changed in the span of two months. He’d gone from a solitary hacker whose only real human interaction consisted on infrequent visits to a hackerspace to… Well… This. Speaking of hackerspaces, he’d have to return there, if only to retrieve his teapot. That thing had _potential_. Also, it was sort-of-maybe sentient, and he felt sort of sorry for the thing, leaving it like that… Besides, he was pretty sure a decent teapot would win him the hearts of at least half of Q-branch. The swill they passed off as tea had been far more effective in terms of interrogation techniques than anything else they’d tried on him. When he’d found out that _everyone_ was drinking it? Willingly? Well…

He wondered if Bond had the supplies for a decent cuppa. Actually, that he was only thinking of that now was testament to Bond’s… skill more than anything else. He smiled fondly up at the man, thinking that the tea could wait - and _that_ was the ultimate sacrifice, wasn’t it? - in favour of this.

Blue eyes opened, crystalline and bright around the dark orb of black pupil - glints of sky-blue glass on 007’s rugged face. It was a look of lazy intensity that he favored Q with, as if he could just watch him lie there for eternity. When he smiled a crooked smile, it was all charm and sated pleasure. “Come here, Q,” he beckoned, coaxing Q further up his body.

Quint laughed. “Bossy,” he teased, but moved up, nestling himself in the crook of James’ arm and winding a long leg around Bond’s even as he used his free hand to trace the contours of James’ face.

Just smiling at Q for a moment, 007 angled his head - a very big cat ostensibly condescending to let itself be stroked (and clearly loving it, even if there was no outright admittance of that face). It was impossible for him to keep his hands to himself for long, though, even post-orgasm. The arm behind Q curled in close, and the other lifted carefully to catch Q’s wrist. The movement taxed his injured arm, and for the first time, he actually winced like a normal person - just mildly, though. “The world is a bloody unfair place,” he noted quite pleasantly, even as he maneuvered the trapped hand closer to his mouth to press a kiss against its palm, “for keeping me away from you until now.” His tone was almost polite, but his eyes glinted in a way that said he just might blow up a few more bits of that world in gentlemanly retaliation.

Quint laughed and shrugged, wiggling a little until he could rest his his elbow on the pillows next to James’s head and his own head on top of it in order to meet the man’s eyes properly. “I don’t know, maybe it was just very scared of what the two of us would do to it given even more time… I’ve no doubt we could rule it, given the proper motivation.”

“Ruling it sounds boring,” Bond opined, smirking openly now at the verbal game. He turned Q’s hand in his grip, clearly enjoying that bit of unimpeded control, and began pressing small kisses to the pad of each finger while never taking his intense blue eyes off Q’s. “But, if you want, I’d gladly conquer it for you.” He kissed the base of Q’s thumb, then rubbed the faint stubble of his cheek against Q’s hand, lowering his voice so it rode the line somewhere between left-over seduction and truly dangerous promise. “I’m told that that’s my specialty, or at least somewhere within my skill-set. Ruling the world I’ll leave up to clever little fiends like yourself.”

Quint laughed. “Nah, you’re right. Ruling would be bloody boring. Also exhausting. Think of all the time we’d spend doing this ruling thing instead of doing... more of this,” He ducked his head a little and it occurred to James just how odd it was to see Q shy away from mentioning sex when earlier he’d been all too happy to explain things in full technicolor detail. “Besides, I don’t need the hastle. I can always just nudge it in whatever direction I please!” Now there was that cheeky, casually arrogant little twat that James was slowly getting to know. It stood in sharp contrast with the cripplingly insecure man that James knew was also in there.

Chuckling his approval for these plans, Bond pressed a kiss to the very center of Q’s palm - an unintentional sign of trust, as he closed his eyes and let the boffin’s fingertips brush his brow and face at close-range. “I can see the budding, behind-the-scenes tyrant already,” he said as he pulled back, although his intense expression bellied his light words. “You’re beautiful,” he commented a moment later, as easily as someone would look at a jewel and say that it shimmers.

Quint giggled and pulled his hand back to pretend at being an evil puppetmaster. “Muahahaha everyone will bow down to my will, even though they won’t even know it! Muahaha!” he waggled his eyebrows before collapsing back into Bond.

Taking the advantage of the returning nearness of his companion, Bond moved the hand at Q’s back up until he could kneed at the muscles at his nape, warm and firm like he couldn’t help it. “Your evil laugh might need some work,” he commented blithely. His other hand slithered from Q’s wrist upwards, until he was brushing a thumb back along Q’s jaw. Although a 00-agent would probably be averse to being called a ‘cuddler,’ Bond was clearly tactile, now more than ever.

Quint laughed, properly this time, and snuggled in a little more. “You’ll have to coach me. I’ll just bet you have a marvelous evil laugh. And even if you haven’t, you must’ve heard some really good ones, in your line of work…”

“God, don’t make me think about it,” the 00-agent groaned, already infected by the sound of Q’s laughter and wanting to bottle it in his memory. “No. No evil laughter. If you have to be a super-villain, I’ll have to train that out of you or something,” he threatened rather sincerely.

Q pouted. “I’m pretty sure a good evil laugh is required to become a member of the Evil League of Evil, actually… Although I don’t think you’d make a very good Penny. Maybe more of a Captain Hammer. Or Harkness. You could totally be my captain Harkness if you wanted to…”

Bond’s hand slid over Q’s mouth, the other arm still looped in a loose coil behind his neck while he started chuckling. “Okay, just stop, before I start feeling the urge to shoot something.” His broad grin rather ruined the threat, as did the way he caved into the urge to press a kiss to Q’s forehead, although he still kept his palm pressed rather warily over the lower half of Q’s face. “I can’t believe I’m spending my post-sex bliss talking pop-culture,” he said with dramatic resignation.

Quint gasped in indignation. “Are you telling me you’ve never seen Doctor Who?” he asked, eyes sparkling even as he glared at Bond. “And you call yourself a British Citizen? A defender of Britain even? It’s a travesty! This is an incredibly important part of British heritage you’re talking about, Bond!”

“God, shut up already,” Bond groaned through a laugh, and abruptly rolled over. He wasn’t to the point where he was ready for another round of sex, but he was more than capable of pinning Q under him a little, if only to distract him from talking. Besides, somehow, James thought he’d never get used to the feel of his skin, and he dipped his head down to run closed lips up Q’s collarbone even as his injuries half-heartedly protested the sudden change in position. Between the ignorable sparks of pain - a haze at the back of his mind - and the warmth of the hacker under him, Bond felt himself sighing and relaxing.

Q’s mischievous expression melted away as he looked up at Bond, pupils dilating even as he went still otherwise. He could see the way Bond’s body tensed up and then relaxed again, could see the flinch and Bond’s decision to ignore it. Concern and happiness battled inside him. He understood that the pain grounded Bond, that he even enjoyed it, on some level, but on the other hand… Those injuries did need to be treated. “Shutting up was never my greatest talent,” he said, but regardless allowed for the change of topic. He’d see to James’s education at some later point. All in the interest of England, of course.

Still with his head buried between Q’s neck and shoulder, nose tracing small patterns as he breathed in the complicated combination of smells that was somehow all _Q_ , the 00-agent made a distinctly amused noise. The hand he gentled through Q’s wild tangle of hair (shifting his weight onto his good arm as Bond settled himself more comfortably), however, was fond. “I wouldn’t have you any other way, Q,” he murmured so softly that Q wouldn’t have heard it, if James hadn’t moved his mouth to caress the words against the soft spot behind Q’s ear. He waited a moment, as if letting the gentle wave of emotion settle in, and then said with the complete, suave idleness of a man who could face down enemy gunman and aristocratic dinner parties with equal candor, “But I believe that we have both been distracted enough to completely forget dinner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there it is. The end. The final chapter. The finish. The very last bit.
> 
> For a start, we'd like to thank everyone who's stuck with us and left comments over the course of this wild, ride. There's nothing quite like hearing someone's lost sleep over something you've written, or reading your headcannons. Those headcannons made us especially happy, let us tell you!
> 
> If you're reading this all in one go, we really hope you've enjoyed the ride. It most certainly was a wild ride for the two of us! Only_1_Truth had never co-written a fic quite like this before, and ginnyvos (who is growing steadily more addicted to tumblr! find her at http://ginnyvos.tumblr.com, and why yes this is a shameless plug-in) had never written anything over 50 pages that wasn't her masters thesis and hates endings about as much as the Doctor does, and we're both convinced all the best bits are totally the other's ideas because we wouldn't have been able to think of that, ever!
> 
> Leave us a comment to tell us what you thought, because even when this is done, we'll still love you so very much for that! And if you've got headcanons to share, please don't be shy! :D You guys? You're bloody amazing.

**Author's Note:**

> So there is that. Let us know what you think, because both of us sort of live for comments!
> 
> (We will love you lots and lots and lots if you leave them, seriously!)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Somber Sunset](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2610839) by [Jana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jana/pseuds/Jana)
  * [Cover for When the Sky Falls](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5280236) by [coricomile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile)




End file.
